


it's my feeling we'll win in the end

by heroic_pants



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Childhood Trauma, F/M, Found Families, M/M, Suicide Attempt, a non-supernatural horror AU, adults dealing with childhood trauma, have i mentioned there is a suicide attempt but it's not shown, the bond is strong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2020-10-31 16:35:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 225,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20797343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heroic_pants/pseuds/heroic_pants
Summary: a group of childhood friends are drawn back to their home town and each other as adults after hearing that one of them attempted suicide, realising that what connects them all to each other isn't as easily forgotten as they thought - for all the bad and good that brings up. Or, the realisation that while your childhood might be gone, you can in fact, go home again.-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------(a re-imagining of the story from a horror to a dramedy, where the traumas that bonded them were all too human, instead of supernatural)





	1. Home Is Where I Want To Be, Pick Me Up And Turn Me Round

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really like to overexplain a fic in the summary, but I was taking a pretty big swing with this one and I thought a little warning was probably necessary, or you'd end up being like "hey why isn't anyone talking about that demon clown they fought one time, that was pretty traumatic, and also, that's nice of him to let them work their shit out without scaring them"  
-  
my main takeaway from seeing the film was 1) that i loved it a lot but bev deserved a better arc 2) and that i was 200% more invested in the 'childhood friends reunited as adults who are collectively coping with childhood trauma' parts than the HORROR MOVIE CLOWN parts, and I kept thinking well it IS a horror movie adapted from a horror novel, and then i was like "someone should reimagine it like a modern The Big Chill, but the friend survives his suicide attempt" and then I realised it would have to be me to fill that very niche prompt. I hope this is enjoyable anyway!
> 
> (also i'm a big nerd and I made a playlist for the losers:
> 
> graphic: https://canva.me/BsOp6pmpj0  
playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/minbelle28/playlist/72IAVKuX6H4DUzem8hBmNx?si=kq8hu9KrSH28ku2YeBBS3Q )

Bill can’t really say that he’s grateful to get the call. But then, in a horribly unspeakable way, he isn’t _not _grateful to receive it.

He’s taking a smoke break off-set when he gets it. He gave up for a while, but it’s so much easier to pick it up again being around these people. He’d only started because he read once about a king who overcame his stutter by – among other things – smoking cigarettes. That was a long time ago, on and off. He’d been, what, seventeen?

He and Audra had been having a fight, sort of. The kind of quiet, bitten-off argument you have when you know people are watching, and would love to sell information to _People _about Audra Phillips Denbrough’s troubled marriage. It might be, but America isn’t part of his marriage and they don’t deserve to know.

He picks it up, and it’s a Maine number he doesn’t have in his phone. Since his mom moved to Florida a while ago, and his dad’s in Ohio and he’s vaguely aware most of the people he knew from home have moved away, he wonders briefly about it. He doesn’t usually pick up random unknown numbers – one of the perks of any small amount of fame is that sometimes people will try and contact you in unorthodox ways – but before he even knows what he’s doing, his finger goes to accept the call and he puts it to his ear.

“Bill Denbrough. Who is this?”

He’s surprised by the voice on the other end, though he shouldn’t be. In that moment, he remembers not everyone left home after high school.

“Mike. Mike Hanlon,” he adds, like it isn’t immediately apparent. There might be a lot of Mikes, but there’s only one with that voice, even though it’s gotten deeper with age. “You probably don’t remember –“ he says, suddenly sounding hesitant.

“Of course I do, Mike, God – how long’s it been? I can’t believe I’m talking to you!” he interrupts, disbelief turning into a wide smile as old, nostalgic memories surface. It’s almost staggering, the burst of childish joy, _riding bikes in the sunshine swimming at the quarry hanging out in the clubhouse, _and something else nagging at the back of his memory, like a shy child tugging at his mother’s skirt. He suddenly remembers the first time he met Eddie, such a tiny boy, clutching his inhaler, hidden behind such a large woman. _Eddie. _It’s probably talking to Mike that’s bringing it up, but he hasn’t really thought about Eddie in years.

Or most of them, most of the time. He saw Richie once in a bar a few years back, and said hi, but they were with different people. They were going to catch up, but they didn’t.

“I – “ there’s something in Mike’s tone that makes Bill stop smiling quite so widely. “I didn’t know if you’d heard yet, but I thought you should know,”

Bill’s stomach drops. He waits.

“It’s Stan,” Mike says heavily. “He tried to kill himself. He said he was going back to his parents’ house to recover, and I think we all need to be there. I think it’d mean the world to him if you were there, y’know? He always looked up to you.”

“I’ll be there as soon as possible,” Bill says immediately, not even stopping to think about it. This feels too important.

***

Eddie almost crashes his car when he gets the call from Mike. Well, there’s no almost about it – he does crash into another car, but it’s not serious. He exchanges insurance information with the irate driver in a daze, not even angry himself, though he’d been _so frustrated _not ten minutes earlier. He can barely remember why. He’d been coming back from a work lunch, and Myra had called to loudly worry at him about the state of the roads and driving himself back from the city and whether he should just take some time off work, and then Mike had called.

He has no idea what Mike is doing now. They hadn’t really gotten into it, just that he still lived in Derry, and that Stan – God, _Stan, _he feels sick. The last time he’d been in contact with Stan had to be a Christmas card, a couple of years ago. He knew Stan was married. _Is _married, he reminds himself. Or not, he realises. Maybe that’s why –

He knows that he doesn’t really have asthma, that it was something his mom made up to make him feel sick and small and afraid a long time ago – but what he wouldn’t give for the comfort of his inhaler at this moment. He needs to – take a pill, or something. He sits in his parked, dented car and searches for the Prozac bottle he keeps in the front glove compartment. He takes one with shaking hands, washing it down with water from his stainless steel BPA-free water bottle.

Mike wants them all to come back. It’s crazy. All of them together, after over twenty years of falling out of contact with each other, at varying rates.

It’s crazy. He’s never wanted to do anything more in the last twenty years. He starts the car up again and turns back home. He needs time to pack. And to calm Myra down.

***

Richie paces his dressing room.

Paces.

Paces.

Runs to the bathroom to throw up again, but nothing comes out this time.

He’d like to say it’s because of the pre-show drink he had, but he knows it takes him a fair few now before he starts losing them again.

It’s not possible, right? You don’t just put your entire life on hold because a childhood friend called you to tell you another childhood friend had a tragedy, and that you should come and support him. Not when you haven’t seen them since college. That makes no sense.

Mike. Kind-eyed Mike, who tried so hard to be the glue between them. Was, for a while. He can barely picture an adult Mike, with a job. A real one. Hopefully he’s not still working at Rodney’s Burgers and Fries. A hysterical laugh bubbles out of him at the thought of a much older Mike, sixty years old or more, still wearing the apron and the little old fashioned hat.

Stan, though. He can picture him as an adult. He was always prematurely old, already forty years old when they were thirteen. He remembers him very seriously reading serious books involving seventy-five hundred old Russians or French people fighting wars or whatever the fuck took that long to get through. Too _fucking _serious, apparently. Richie knows this isn’t the appropriate reaction, and yet somewhere he’s angry and he’s not even sure if it’s for the right reasons.

Everyone’s depressed. Why should he go? Does this make Stan’s shit any more valid? He hasn’t even seen the guy in literally two decades.

He’s got tour dates in Reno, next. He’s got a fucking show in five minutes. He can’t be worrying about this right now. Fucking Mike. Fucking Stan. Fucking Small Town America.

Fucking – _fuck. _

He knows it, somewhere deep inside. He actually wants to go back, like the complete madman he clearly is. He’s going to do it, and see all of them again, after all this goddamn time. He thinks of a face he won’t even name in his thoughts, and wants to be sick. Which, in itself, is ridiculous. It’s been over twenty years.

“Richie?” There’s a knock on his door. “You’re on in five.”

“I’m coming,” he croaks.

***

Ben wakes alone, as usual.

He gets up, even though it’s still early. He never sleeps in.

He goes for a jog on the treadmill downstairs. As usual.

His mind isn’t clear.

He can’t help thinking about the call he got last night.

How had he let himself forget Mike?

Mike, who understood what it was like to be on the outside of an insular town more than anyone. Mike, who was just happy to be friends with them, and never made you feel like a dweeb – even when he found out what you had in your Walkman. Mike who never tried to make anyone feel like shit, even as a joke, but always laughed with you and made you feel a part of things.

It’s not like he hasn’t been busy in the last two decades. He’s made a lot of sacrifices for the sake of the business. Worked long hours, lost serious relationships, not made friends outside of work - and they’re not really friends, not in a real way And yet, Mike’s request has set off a pack of wild fire-ants in his brain.

He’s ashamed to admit he can’t remember when he fell out of touch with Stan. It must have been just after he got married, because he can remember sending him an email congratulating him on the wedding and apologising for being out of the country for the ceremony. He might have tried harder to go if everyone else had, but Stan had fallen out of touch with some of them already, and he couldn’t bear hoping to see her there if she wasn’t going to be there.

God, poor Stan. He wonders if there’s anything he can do, financially – kind of out of shock, he’d offered this to Mike, in place of going, saying he was too busy with work – but Mike had just sounded a little disappointed, and had graciously thanked him, but excused himself to call the last person he needed to. Her. Beverly.

It’s pathetically tragic, the way he can’t totally forget her. Not that he ever had her. Not that he wanted to possess her, not in a shitty way. But no matter how many sit-ups he’s done since, no matter how many miles he’s run, no matter how long it’s been since he got anywhere near a dessert – his personal trainer would just _know _somehow – anytime he’s reminded of her, he remembers he’s just the boy who loved his best friend. A girl who never saw him that way. He could never blame her for that.

Somehow, he knows this is unmissable. They might never get such an unignorable chance to be together again. As a businessman, and an adult, he doesn’t believe in signs. But that little wide-eyed child, not totally buried inside him somewhere, believes this is one. The kind of shock that hurts so much it pulls them back into orbit.

He stops jogging and dictates a text to his Apple watch. “Mike – am coming down ASAP. Tell Stan I’ll be there soon.”

Well. Perks of owning your own high-level construction company are that you can take holidays when you want and delegate your work. He’s just never wanted to do it before now.

***

The train trip from New York is four hours and counting. Rain drums on the window in fat little droplets, splintering smaller patterns across the glass. Beverly watches them, leaning her head against the window.

She’s exhausted, and she’ll need a proper shower when she finally gets there, but at least she’s going.

It doesn’t quite feel real at the moment. She still feels like she could wake up in their big, cold bed, with him next to her. _You dreamed you got away, darling. You dreamed you could make choices without me. _

She breathes, reminds herself to do those grounding exercises. You are here. You are now. She focuses on the splatter patterns of raindrops on the window.

Someone next to her brushes her arm and she moves back instinctively. She looks at her wrist. She hadn’t realised, but green-purple bruises have come up on it. She supposes it hurts, but it’s nothing compared to other past horrors. It’s just a reminder. Sometimes she thinks she should tattoo them there, so she won’t ever not be reminded.

It’s important not to forget.

Again, she feels a pang of guilt. The same she’s been feeling all day.

She and Stan had been so close once. He saw everything but he never said anything, never betrayed you like that. He was so good to talk to. He read a lot.

_“What are you reading, Stan? And when did you start it, I’m assuming three years ago?” she says, laughing. He’s propped up against a tree, and it’s summer, and they’re fifteen and carefree, or at least willing to pretend. _

_He looks up from the huge book with a small smile, curling the edges of his mouth up. “Very funny, Bev. It’s War and Peace. It’s Tolstoy.” _

_She nods. “Russians liked to go on, I see. Is that just fifty percent the extra names and consonants?” _

_This makes him laugh and he shakes his head at her. “You’re evil. I’m trying to read.” _

_She laughs again. “I think you mean, ‘oh Bev, what would I do without your sense of humour, I would just be a forty-year old boy reading on my own in a cold room at home.’ Come swim with your friends already, old man.” _

_He rolls his eyes, exaggeratedly. “One can dream. And I thought we weren’t all swimming? Before you try it, Richie already tried to throw me in, and he nearly destroyed this book, and then I nearly destroyed him, so just know I’m ready and willing to defend myself.”_

_She laughs. “No I’m not gonna force you to come in. I’m just saying, who knows how many more perfect lazy summers we have? To just hang out and swim, before life catches up to us?” _

_He shakes his head, and she knows she’s found the button she was looking for. He looks at her, smiling ruefully. “That’s a low blow, Beverly.”_

_She cackles, getting up. “I know. Come on, Tolstoy’s not going to be any less dead if you leave him for a while.” _

_He laughs, marking his place in the book and accepts her hand up. In the water the boys see them walk out and a collective cheer goes up. _

She rubs her eyes. How did she fall out of contact with him for so long?

She sighs. And it’s going to be all of them. All of those lifelines she cut without really thinking, without even really trying to.

***

Mike gets up early, and potters around, not really doing anything. Full of nervous energy, his thoughts jangling about his head. He probably shouldn’t have coffee, but he does.

Once he’s whiled away enough time, he sends a text.

_Just going to get breakfast + coffee, you alright for me to come by after? how do you take your coffee?_

He doesn’t have much time to worry over it because the reply comes pretty quickly.

**Of course, come over whenever you want. Not that it’s that unpacked here. Black, no sugar, Thank-you. **

Of course he texts like he emails. Very politely.

Mike remembers being told about a boy who swore at his own bar mitzvah. He hadn’t been allowed to go, but they’d all told him about it. They seemed so surprised, like they wouldn’t have ever expected it from him. He wasn’t surprised. He knew Stan had that ability to seem serious and together on the outside, masking a whirlwind of anxiety and anger inside. He’d just cracked a bit that day. Probably much like when he… 

If only he’d…

Mike shakes himself. It’s not productive and it’s not particularly helpful to him, or Stan, to go down that road. What happened, happened. What happens now is the most important thing.

He gets two coffees and a few pastries from the little bakery. Stan used to have a bit of a sweet tooth, but he might have grown out of it, if his coffee order is anything to go by.

He ignores the stares of two old men sitting at a table outside. You’d think after nearly forty years in this town they wouldn’t find him such an oddity, and yet.

He gets back in the car and in no time is driving back down to the wealthier end of town. It’s hard to live somewhere this small as long as he has and not know every part of it- almost - but he hasn’t been down this street in years. It’s a strange feeling. Like being a stranger in his own home, being familiar and unfamiliar. But, that’s not exactly a new feeling for him, being from here.

He parks in the driveway, takes the tray up to the front door, and knocks.

He can’t help thinking for a moment that he’s fourteen again, and Stan’s stern-faced father is about to answer the door and look down his nose at him.

But no matter what similarities Mike recognises in his adult features, the person who opens the front door isn’t Mr Uris, it’s Stan. Of course.

They’ve only seen each other a few times since he got back to town two days ago. He’d known he was coming. Stan had kept him in the loop.

_Less than a week ago – he’d been marking History papers, by himself - a wild weekend – when he’d gotten the call from Stan. And how … empty he’d sounded. How drained of anything recognisably him. _

_Mike hadn’t completely fallen out of touch with him, but still, they hadn’t talked in months. They’d both been busy, Mike assumed. He didn’t want to intrude on Stan and his wife, just to be the tragic single hometown friend. He hadn’t realised how long it had been. _

_They’d talked for a while. About nothing important. It felt nice. Nostalgic, like when they used to talk on the phone, or spend ages just talking about the books they were reading, they ones they had in common and the ones they didn’t. But sooner or later, the reason Stan had called reared its head again. _

_“I – I want to come back. For a bit. A few weeks, maybe. You heard about my parents, a while back?” he asks. He sounds exhausted. _

_“Yeah, I did… I’m sorry,” he says, aware that it’s not enough, but not sure what else to say. _

_“It’s ok,” Stan says, immediately, then pauses. “I mean, obviously, it’s not ok, but it, uh, happens.”_

_He pauses again. Mike doesn’t say anything. _

_“Anyway, I just wanted to say – I’ve been meaning to go there, maybe clear some stuff out. It’s been … suggested to me by someone here, and my therapist, that it might be a good thing to get away. Somewhere where I – “ He stumbles for a moment. “Where I have friends. Or at least a friend. If we’re still friends.” _

_Mike doesn’t know what to say. He wants to ask what Stan’s wife thinks, that they had always seemed happy together, why isn’t she there with him. He shouldn’t, but he finds himself asking, “Is Patricia coming down with you?” _

_Stan sucks in a breath on the other end of the line, sharp, involuntary and Mike regrets asking. “She’s not – we’re not – right now. Separated,” he says, flat. _

_“I’m sorry, man,” he repeats. “You don’t have to say anymore. And of course we’re still friends, man, after everything? You’ll always have a place to stay here.” _

_“Thanks, Mike –“ he starts, and then his voice crumples into a sob, and he starts crying. _

_What’s worse is that Mike can picture it, but thinks not of his adult face but his thirteen-year-old one, crying and terrified in the dark, a long time ago. It’s agonising. _

_“I’m - sorry,” Stan says weakly. “How embarrassing.” _

_“Stan,” Mike says, with every fibre of gentleness in his being. “You don’t have to apologise for your shit. Not with me. You know that, alright? I don’t want you to be upset, but don’t ever feel sorry for it. Feel what you have to feel.” He pauses. “How soon are you coming?” _

_“As soon as I can, honestly.” _

Stan looks tired, his face lined. His glasses make him look older than he is. But he smiles a little at the coffee cups, taking one off Mike’s tray.

“My therapist said I should try and wean myself off coffee, but she’s not here, so,” he says, a little too lightly. At the look on Mike’s face he says, “I’m only having, at most, two a day. And not after lunch. It’s not like I’m doing any drugs.”

Mike sighs. “I know. I’m not trying to wrap you in cotton wool, I just want you to be healthy.”

Stan nods. “Noted. Won’t you come in? We can sit on one of the several couches and chairs I have no idea what to do with yet.”

Mike nods. “Well, at least they won’t have plastic covers.” The few times Mike had come over when they were kids they had only been allowed to sit on the plastic covered couches. He never felt comfortable.

Stan grins, a little rueful. “That’s true.”

***

Mike looks at Stan over the lid of his coffee. He just needs to tell Stan, and it’ll be fine.

Stan narrows his eyes suspiciously. “What’s with you? You seem very amped. Did you have coffee before this?”

Mike attempts an innocent, chill expression. “No – well, one. Maybe. When I got up. I didn’t want to wake you up too early. I’m fine.”

Stan gives him a look. “You seem it. What’s going on? Spill it, Hanlon.”

Mike takes a sip of his coffee and looks at Stan.

“Ok. So I did something. And you might not be happy. But I think it might be really good,” Mike says quickly.

Stan, somehow, narrows his eyes more. “What did you do?”

Mike sighs. “So, the hospital mental health advisor, and your therapist both said you should be around friends or family at this time, when you’re recovering, right? But I can’t be here all the time, you know I have to be at the school – and I thought, maybe you’d get lonely –“

“I’m not going to try it again, ok. You don’t have to have a rota to mind me, Mike,” Stan cuts in irritably.

Mike continues, trying to not be annoyed himself. “I know, Stan. I’m not trying to infantilise you, can you just let me tell you?”

Stan looks at him, then relents, nodding.

Mike looks at him. “I invited them all back here. The Losers.”

Stan looks surprised, but Mike can’t tell if it’s positive or negative. He doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“So they know then…” he says quietly, and Mike feels terrible, instantly.

He has a habit of thinking if he can just get people where they need to be they’ll forgive what he had to do to nudge them along. But he should know, the means don’t justify the ends, and this wasn’t his secret to tell.

He looks at Stan, guiltily. “I…look, man, I don’t have an excuse. I’m sorry. I couldn’t think of another way they’d all come down. And I really think you need them. But I am really sorry, that was shitty of me.”

Stan’s eyes are misty behind his glasses, but he breaks into a small smile. Mike wasn’t expecting that, and doesn’t know what to say to it.

“It was. But I guess … I should be kind of, insanely grateful that I have such intense, weirdo friends that care enough about me to pull this shit,” he says, and his voice is a little shaky. He gives Mike a strange look behind his glasses.

Mike can remember when he first got them.

_“Do I look stupid?” Stan asks, putting them on. “It feels weird to have them on.”_

_Mike smiles. Stan kind of looks like an owl with them on, but Mike’s kind of always thought of him as an owl. Wise and watching. “No, they look great. It makes you look – distinguished. Like an old white guy professor. Which you’ll probably be, one day. When you’re an adult.” _

_Stan laughs. “You’re saying that to make me feel better. I swore in temple, and now I’m probably not ever going to be a proper man.” _

_“The way I see it, having a temper tantrum in a public place and swearing at people is at least seventy-five percent of being an adult man,” Mike laughs. “Can I try them?” _

_Stan grins and hands them over. He laughs as Mike puts them on. “Oh my god, you look like Urkel,” he laughs._

_Mike laughs a lot, even though it’s the sort of thing only his friends can get away with. “Shut up, George McFly,” he says, handing them back to Stan. _

_Stan laughs harder until they’re both laughing so hard that they’re crying, which makes a passing Richie ask why, and he gets really mad when they can’t stop to explain – which only makes them laugh harder._

Mike looks down at his coffee cup for a moment, and then up. “Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. But thanks, too.”

He watches Stan take another sip. Stan wears a lot of long-sleeved shirts. He can only imagine that his arm is bandaged under there, and it hurts to think about.

“So, it’s all of them?” Stan asks.

Mike nods. “Yep.”

Stan looks surprised. “Even Richie? Isn’t he like…touring? And isn’t Ben kind of _busy, _being a titan of industry or whatever the fuck it is that he does?” He pauses. “Not to mention Bill, although I have no idea what he’s up to currently other than I thought he was doing stuff with his books in Hollywood. Is he working on a book, or a movie, or something?”

Mike shrugs. “I wasn’t sure about them. But Bill pretty much said he’d come right away. Ben just got back to me weirdly early in the morning, but I guess, businessman hours. Said he’d be here ASAP. And I got a weird voicemail from Richie that I’m _pretty _sure meant he was taking a break from the tour to visit.”

Stan nods. “I mean, I don’t want him to get sued or anything. Can you tell him it’s not that important?”

Mike nods. “I told him not to put himself in a bad position, but he actually seemed pretty set on coming and seeing everyone when he texted me back.”

Stan raises a subtle, knowing eyebrow. “Yeah, I can imagine he is.”

Mike smiles, a little. “Yeah. It’s been a long time.”

“So when are they coming?”

“Uh, tomorrow?”

Stan groans, and starts to laugh, making Mike laugh. “You are the _worst_. Good thing you’re also super empathetic, because you’re single-minded to a fault, _Michael_.”

Mike laughs, surprised. “Ok, don’t _psychoanalyse_ me, _Stanley_.”

Stan laughs too, again. “Alright, alright.”

***

Bill reaches the old guesthouse after driving for a few hours from the airport in a rental car. Not nearly as nice as his car back home, but he wasn’t trying to be especially flashy.

After he’d explained to her why he had to go, Audra had been understanding, but he knew she wasn’t happy.

“_It’s just for a few days. Just to make sure he’s ok,” he’d said, as the lyft driver loaded his bag into the back. _

_She nodded. “We can move on with other scenes for now, but don’t stay away too long, ok?” _

_“I won’t”. _

_She gave him a strange, sad look. “Also, because I’ll miss you.”_

_He looked back at her, aware that the driver was now waiting for him to get in. “I’ll … I’ll call you when I get in. You won’t have time to miss me.” _

He’s never stayed in the guest house before. He lived with his parents, and then he always stayed with them when he came back on breaks from college, and then he just started coming back less and less. He stopped all together, when his parents decided being here was too full of memories and sold the house to go live in separate parts of the country.

It’s an old building, and it’s been a guesthouse for as long as he can remember. He walks up the stairs, and drags his little bag into the lobby.

There’s no one at the front desk. _Off to a great start. _

He looks for a bell, finds it and rings it. It looks ancient, like it might have been here since the Revolutionary War. Even the noise it makes sounds geriatric.

“Bill?”

He turns around and for a moment, blinded by the sudden light from the open door, he sees her like the last time he saw her. Seventeen, her hair grown long again, in that cute little sundress she wore under the ugly blue graduation robes they had to wear to receive their high-school diplomas.

He blinks. “Bev?”

She looks great. Her hair is shorter again, albeit not as short as the summer she cut it all off. He’d personally thought it looked great, but she could have cut it into a mohawk and he’d have thought she looked cute. He doesn’t like to dwell on why she did it though. It hurts to even think about it.

She looked for a moment, worried, as she walked in. But now she breaks into a smile, and it suddenly doesn’t matter to him that they haven’t so much as talked in over twenty years.

“Come and give me a hug, then!” she says, walking up to him. He meets her in the middle and does as she says, putting everything that happened to one side. He’s just _missed her. _They were friends before they were anything else, and he’s missed her.

“I’m sorry, I’m sure I don’t smell great, I’ve been on trains so long I’ve lost track of time and space,” she jokes. Actually, he thinks she smells great – maybe a little like travelling, but also faintly like expensive perfume. Not the kind that Audra wears, thankfully. He doesn’t tell her any of this though.

“Well, in that case, it’s Tuesday. And you’re in Derry,” he jokes back.

She laughs, and it turns into a kind of sigh. “God, we really are, aren’t we?”

He half-laughs. “Yep. Somehow. So you haven’t been back since…”

“Graduation,” she finishes, a little awkwardly. “I wanted to, but it was … 

He shakes his head. “No explanation necessary. It’s not like most of us were here.”

She gives him a grateful smile, and then they’re interrupted by an old woman who’s walked up behind them.

“Checking in, dears? Come up to the desk with me.”

Bev smiles at him and goes to grab her bag.

***

Ben has always liked driving through Maine. It’s been a while though. He doesn’t have any projects here, and the ones he has keep him plenty busy. He can afford to fly his parents out to Seattle, and they seem to like it, so he hasn’t really been back since college.

He could have hired a driver. But he gets driven around a lot, and he likes driving, especially on big open roads like these, watching the scenery go past the window.

He’s not expecting the gut-punch of mingled nostalgia and childhood anxiety that he’s socked with when he turns into Derry, and the streets become instantly familiar.

He passes the library, and wonders how much time he spent there.

It’s surprising how much how much the main street has and hasn’t changed. There used to be a milk bar, he remembers, they used to get milkshakes there.

There’s the street where Richie and Mike stood up for him against some older kids, and really, it was just that Mike was taller than them that probably got them to back off. Which was funny on its own, because if they’d known him at all, they’d have known he was the gentlest of all them.

He sees himself walking home with Bev in the summer, both of them holding quickly melting ice-creams. _Bev. _God. This is ridiculous. He’s an adult, and he’s been one for some time. He’s not a sweaty-palmed thirteen-year-old anymore.

Awful how just being here kind of makes him feel like it though.

He pulls up to the guesthouse. Why this is the only place to stay that isn’t miles out of town, he doesn’t know. But he’s here now.

He takes a breath and gets out of the car, and immediately sees a familiar face.

***

Eddie’s just pulled into the old guest house parking area – not that it’s much of a parking area, there are like four spots max, and then it’s drive-around-till-you-find-something for any unluckier customers – when he sees a black BMW pull up.

Eddie watches, but the driver doesn’t get out, and he can’t see in the window. As he gets out of his own car, he’s struck by the sudden realisation that this is almost certainly someone he knows. Well, it’s Derry, so he knows a lot of people here, but it’s gotta be one of his old friends, staying at the guesthouse too. It’s an expensive looking car, so whoever’s renting it has money. His heart does a funny jump, like when you miss a step on the stairs. It wouldn’t be…

A man gets out of the car, and to Eddie’s surprise and slight disappointment he doesn’t recognise him. He’s tall, dark haired, very handsome, which is not something Eddie would admit to cataloguing, but he can’t help thinking it anyway. He wonders briefly if he’s an actor – if something’s shooting around here – but they never shoot things around here – and then he turns and looks at Eddie, and his face breaks out into a strangely familiar smile.

“Oh my god, Eddie!” he says easily, like they’ve known each other since they were children. Which, Eddie realises with a shock, they have.

“Ben Hanscom?” he asks, incredulously. He’d pretty much arrived there by rapid process of elimination.

He strides over, and Eddie is starting to see it now. He’s lost a lot of weight, and his hair is darker, with the beginnings of grey – maybe from stress, maybe just because they’re fucking _old _now, which seems impossible, but he carries it off in a distinguished kind of way – but his eyes are the same colour, and his smile is the same. If Eddie didn’t know for a fact they were the same age, he’d assume he was younger, because he’s aged _very _well. Maybe the uber-rich really do drink the blood of virgins to stay young, or something.

Ben hugs him, and for a moment Eddie remembers how tactile they all used to be. Which, for late 80s-90s small-town Maine seems crazy to him now. He has a sense memory of Ben’s heavy, comforting arm around his shoulders, passing him a paper bag with the other, when he had a panic attack once, terrified that he’d failed this quiz and therefore flunked the class and might have to go to summer school.

He hadn’t even failed the quiz. Ben had never brought it up, that he’d freaked out over nothing.

“It’s so good to see you, Eddie. You look just like I remember – but taller,” he says, grinning good-naturedly.

“Well you really _don’t ... _I didn’t even recognise you until you called out to me, but you look great, anyway, Jesus ... how much crossfit do you _do_?” Eddie says, and he can’t help sounding incredulous.

Ben laughs, but there’s something not quite reaching his eyes. “It’s nothing. I lost a few pounds. It’s not that exciting.”

“Speak for yourself, man,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “If I looked like that, I’d definitely rub it in everyone’s face.”

Ben laughs, shaking his head. “It’s really not a big deal. So you’re staying at the guesthouse too?”

Eddie looks up at it and back. “Oh…yeah. Isn’t it great that in the time we’ve been gone, they haven’t opened a second place to stay in this town?”

Ben grins. “Yeah, I thought it might be at least a two-horse town by now.”

Eddie chuckles. “I think they hit the millennium and were like, let’s stay here.”

They look up at it, seemingly both anticipating.

“Alright, let’s go,” Ben says, in a very matter-of-fact way. Eddie remembers vaguely that he’s in some kind of big business, and can definitely see it now.

Eddie sighs. “Ok. Just let me get my bags from the car.”

Ben raises an eyebrow. “How much did you bring?”

“Uh, just…two bags. And my backpack,” Eddie says, trying to be casual.

Ben grins again. “You really haven’t changed. C’mon, I’ll give you a hand.”

***

Eddie and Ben decide to take one car to the restaurant where they’re supposed to be all meeting up. Secretly, Ben’s kind of glad he’s not going alone. It seems so much easier when he’s going with one of them.

Eddie is the same, kind of exactly how he pictured him as an adult. Full of anxiety-fuelled fast-talking, always going on about some weird disease or medical case, still sort of snarky. It’s funny the things you don’t even realise you miss.

He says he’s married, when it comes up, but he changes the subject quickly. He doesn’t really talk about her at all.

“Do you mind if I go ahead? I just need to inform the staff about my dietary requirements,” Eddie says, seriously. Ben nods, with a small smile.

Eddie heads off inside to harangue the staff, and Ben heads after him.

“I don’t believe it! Ben?” A voice comes from his left. His heart traitorously skips a beat, just hearing her voice. Why can’t he be calm around her? He’s never truly been able to be calm around her, even if he got good at pretending.

Why does being back here make him feel so childish and emotional? He doesn’t have much time for relationships back home, but he’s considered a very ‘eligible bachelor’. And yet, he comes back here, he hears her voice once, and he’s fourteen and miserable again, because he wants her to be happy and he wants Bill – the first person to let him in, bring him into the group – to be happy as well, but it hurts to see them so loved-up.

He turns to her, and smiles in what he hopes is a casual way. “Bev?”

She smiles at him, looking amazed. “Wow, you look…really great, wow… it’s so good to see you, Ben.”

He can’t help beaming at her. She’s no less beautiful, but it was never about that. Well, it was _mostly_ more than that – it was about the kind of person who could be coping with so much of her own shit from every direction, and still find the empathy to befriend the awkward new kid. Looking back, he’d had no chance of not falling for her. “It’s really good to see you, too,” he replies, still beaming.

She hugs him. She still smells good, although wearing a more expensive perfume these days. He can feel a ring on her ring finger digging into his back. He can’t exactly be surprised that she’s married. He wonders vaguely what her husband is like.

There’s so much more he wants to say before they go in, and it’s everyone together, except that he also can’t.

She looks at him, smiling. “Ben, I –“

Then they hear a familiar voice.

“What the fuck? Why do you guys look amazing, and I look like shit now?”

***

Richie almost chickens out. Which seems insane. Why come all the way here, why put the tour on hold, just to not see these people?

It’s just for a moment, in his room at the guesthouse, that doubt creeps in. It’s been a long time. He remembers that he didn’t end up catching up with Bill the one time he managed to run into him in a bar in L.A, and he can’t remember what he was so busy with that he couldn’t call his first best friend back. Then again, it’s not like Bill ever tried to get in contact either, for fuck’s sake.

He waits. He watches the shitty little TV, and he would almost bet it hasn’t been replaced since he was in high school. He watches his phone clock. Then he jumps up, grabs his jacket, and gets the hell out of the guesthouse.

He guns it in on familiar roads, in the kind of car that thirteen-year-old him would have salivated over. He connects it to his phone, and finds some Springsteen. The kind of music that strangely makes him both full of some kind of emotion, and still makes him feel pumped up. The big guns.

_Stay on the streets of this town, and they'll be carvin' you up alright. They say you gotta stay hungry. Hey baby, I'm just about starvin' tonight, _Bruce sings, and something about being here, listening to this reminds him of being sixteen and listening to Bill’s Dad’s records, feeling some kind of emotion he couldn’t even really name if he’d been asked.

_Can’t start a fire, sitting around crying about a broken heart. _He forgets about that line every-time.

_“I don’t get why you guys like this so much,” Eddie complains. _

_Richie pokes him in the side, and Eddie squirms away. “It’s not my fault you don’t understand adult emotions, asshole. Don’t worry, I’m sure puberty will hit you any second now.” _

_Bill coughs, failing to cover a laugh, and Richie smirks to himself. Eddie pokes him back. For all that he mocks him, it was much easier to get one over him when they were thirteen and he was definitively the smallest of them. He just had to go and get and better at fighting back, didn’t he. _

_“Fuck you, I’m still growing,” Eddie replies grumpily. _

_Richie hopes he doesn't keep growing, though. He isn’t a fan of that idea. How would he even cope with a tall Eddie? _

_“Man, I ain't gettin' nowhere_

_I'm just livin' in a dump like this_

_There's somethin' happenin' somewhere_

_Baby, I just know that there is,”_

_Bill sings along quietly, closing his eyes. He blows smoke out and passes the joint to Richie. _

_“I don’t know how he does it. I feel like he’s just – cutting me open, but in a good way?” he says slowly. _

_Richie takes it, breathes in, holds it, breathes out. “Fuckin’ a, man.” _

_“Why do you guys even like this stuff? We were in like, third grade when it came out. It’s your dad’s music,” Eddie tries again, irritably. _

_“Just because you and your mom have the same bad taste in music,” Richie retorts. “Would you rather we put on some George Michael?” _

_“Fuck off, Richie,” Eddie says. _

_Richie can’t help annoying him, because what else is he gonna do? So he turns to him and offers him the joint. “It might help you chill out. I’m sure you could use that.” _

_Eddie scowls at him. “No, I don’t need that, thanks. It’s a –“ _

_“If you say ‘gateway drug’ I’ll have to smother you with this cushion, Eds,” Richie cuts him off, and Bill definitely doesn’t disguise his laugh this time. _

_Eddie glares at him, and then to Richie’s definite surprise, plucks the joint right out of his mouth and puts it to his lips. Richie can’t help watching him, even though he should look away but his head is heavy and the music is paralysing him a little. He watches Eddie take a breath, and suddenly panics that asthmatics shouldn’t smoke weed, before he remembers that Eddie isn’t really asthmatic. _

_He only coughs a little, then hands it back to Richie, still annoyed with him. Richie wonders if he’s ever noticed those colours in Eddie’s eyes before, or whether he’s just really high. _

_“You happy now, asshole?” Eddie asks. _

_“Can’t start a fire, sitting around crying about a broken heart,” Bruce sings in the background, and Richie turns his head to look at the ceiling again. _

_“Thrilled, although who have you been smoking with, huh? That was way less dramatic than I expected, Eds,” he jokes, not looking at him. _

_“Yeah, actually, you’re suspiciously not bad at that for a first-timer,” Bill puts in, slowly. _

_“I never said I was a first-timer,” Eddie replies, testily. “I tried some of Bev’s at Mark Donnelly’s party. I didn’t like it though. I just wanted to shut Richie up.” _

_Bill laughs again. “A noble goal, although no one’s managed it so far.”_

_“You can't start a fire, worryin' about your little world fallin' apart,” Bruce sings, and Richie feels like he might explode, but with what he can’t say. _

_“He just fuckin’ gets it,” he mutters, and Bill murmurs an agreement. _

Suddenly, Richie’s in the carpark of a Chinese Restaurant that must be new. Derry hadn’t been particularly multicultural or welcoming before he’d left.

Mike had texted them to ask if they wanted to meet up for dinner, and Richie can’t see how this won’t be awkward – probably he’s not allowed to mention why they’re here, even though they all know why they dropped everything to come – but he’s also strangely pumped to see everyone. He feels like he’s forgotten that he’s been waiting for this day forever and it’s finally happened. The power of Bruce, maybe.

He gets out of the car, and sees two people outside the restaurant, hugging, one with strangely familiar hair.

_Bev. _He feels a rush of affection already that shocks him. _Calm down, you weirdo_.

She’s with a tall, handsome man who has to be some kind of athlete or male model. Maybe this is her husband. He’s certainly on her level – she’s aged much better than he has, but she’s probably actually been taking care of herself for twenty years.

Then he hears her call him Ben, and if he was shocked before it’s nothing to how he feels now. Next to him, Richie feels like his elderly uncle, not his contemporary.

“What the fuck? Why do you guys look amazing, and I look like shit now?” he says, half-annoyed and half-just strangely nostalgic and happy.

They turn and beam at him, and seem genuinely excited to see him. Like the past twenty-two years are nothing, it’s just been a particularly long summer away from home.

He hugs Bev, and then Ben, and is still shocked by how good it feels to see them again. And to think he wasn’t going to come tonight.

Ben looks at the entrance. “Shall we do this then?”

Richie sighs. “Ok, but if anyone else has become a model since I last saw you guys, I’m fucking leaving,” he jokes weakly, unable to fully hide how keen he is now.

Bev laughs. “Come on, Richie. The Pork Lo Mein awaits.”


	2. (I Ain't A Boy, No I'm A Man And) I Believe In A Promised Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> took me a while to update this, but i bring you an unexpectedly long chapter to make up for it! 
> 
> (also a note, if you care about this sort of thing: someone in this chapter implies eddie could be bisexual, but my reading of him is definitely more that he's a repressed gay man, so there you go)

“You look anxious, Mike. It’ll be fine,” Stan says calmly, sitting down at the table.

Mike looks at him. “I’m not anxious. I’m fine. How are you doing?”

Stan gives him an unconvinced look over his glasses. “Better than you, I think. They’ll be here.”

Mike nods, a little too fast. “They’ll be here.”

They will be – or at least most of them will. He’s still not sure if Richie will turn up.

He goes out of their private area to see if anyone’s here yet and sees him, and gets the strangest kick of nostalgic warmth.

Of course Bill is here first. He was called first. He was their unofficial leader.

He looks a little more tired, going a little grey in wisps at the front of his hair – but it makes him look kind of distinguished, too, like an author should look.

Mike feels a rush of affection, some kind of overwhelming gratefulness for Bill’s steady dependability – the guy that was always there for you, inviting you over if you couldn’t study at home, sharing his things with you, ensuring you got invited to the same parties – which propels him into a hug that’s probably a little too long.

Bill doesn’t try to squirm out of it, just hugs him back.

“Sorry, I –“ Mike says, letting go of him, smiling sheepishly. “It’s just really good to see you again, Bill. I don’t even know how long it’s been?”

Bill shakes his head, smiling the kind of relaxed smile that makes him look years younger. “No, it’s been…too long. Wasn’t it Stan’s wedding? That was what, 2005?”

He lets out a low whistle. “It can’t have been that long ago, God.”

Mike shakes his head. “No, I actually remember now – your book signing, here? It was like, maybe a year after that. When you published your first book, and obviously, people loved it – I always knew they would, if you ever got your writing out there – sorry, I’m being weird, I probably had too much coffee today –“ He laughs, but feels even more awkward and embarrassed. He’s definitely jittery from the three coffees he’s had today and it’s making his thoughts and memories trip over each other in their haste to get out.

Bill laughs, but not meanly. It’s affectionate and familiar. “Will you stop apologising to me, Mike? You’ve always – you were always supportive. It meant a lot. Still means a lot.”

Mike nods. “Well, I always knew people would see your talent.”

Bill looks at him. “Actually, I remember that signing – we caught up for a drink after, right? God, I was so nervous – everyone was acting like I was some bigshot now, and I’d only published one book, I felt like such a fake. I can’t believe how long ago that was.”

“Yeah,” Mike says, with a sigh. He remembers it too, but was surprised to hear Bill describe it like that. When they’d met he’d been perfectly humble about the book’s success, but there had been an undeniable air of confidence around him when he’d come back that last time – a real feeling of having beaten this place somehow, having escaped.

“So, is Stan here yet?” Bill asks, in the slightly heavier atmosphere that’s settled around them.

Mike blinks. “Oh no! I was only coming out to bring you back to the table, and I got distracted. Stan’s back there.”

Bill laughs. “I’m sure he’ll understand,” he says, and then his smile fades. “Is he…alright?”

Mike looks at him, as they walk back to the table. “He’s…doing better, I think. It’s only been a few days though. Hard to tell,” he says, in an undertone. “Glad you’re here, though. I know he will be too.”

Bill nods, looking pensive. “Glad to be here, honestly.”

Stan is sitting at the round table, reading. Mike is momentarily charmed by the realisation that he brought an emergency book to the restaurant even though he might not get to read it all night.

“Is that an ornithology book?” Bill asks, so fondly that Mike is glad he came first. It feels right, somehow.

Stan looks up and blinks, owlishly. Mike constantly used to think that it’s a good thing Stan liked birds so much, maybe because of this bird-like quality in him - even though he’s not as small and skinny as he was then.

“Yeah,” he says, standing up but looking a bit caught off-guard. Maybe for all his reassurance earlier, he hadn’t been certain they were coming either.

Bill smiles softly, and Mike remembers why he was sort of the leader – not through overconfidence, cockiness or boisterousness – just because of that friendly, warm, steady quality he had. Still has.

“Some things never change then, Stan?” he says, walking over and Stan looks at him, eyes a little misty behind his glasses, and he breaks into a genuine smile.

Mike can’t help smiling wider at this. Smiles like that have been few and far between on Stan, recently. Understandably.

Bill draws Stan into a tight hug, and Mike feels less embarrassed about hugging him earlier. Bill hasn’t lost that affectionate, protective quality.

“I know I, I haven’t been here for you but I’m here now,” Bill says, with some repressed emotion. “I just want you to know that.”

“Thanks, Bill,” Stan says, in a tight voice. “I’m just – I can’t believe you’re here, God.”

Bill looks at Mike. “If it weren’t for this fucking _amazing_ friend of ours, I wouldn’t be. Not that I didn’t want to – I just, I wouldn’t have known if not for him. We really - owe him. Big.”

Stan smiles a little more, again. “Yeah, he’s pretty amazing, our Mike. He’s been really helpful with my temporary move-in at my parents’ place. Not really something you wanna do on your own,” he says, with a wry smile.

“It’s nothing,” Mike deflects. He’s never been good at taking compliments. “It’s what you do for your friends. Your best ones, anyway.”

Stan smiles even more, and Mike wishes he could write it down like a formula. A cribsheet for a test. Exactly what it takes to pull a smile like that out of someone hurting so much, so quietly. There’s some look in his eyes that Mike can’t quite parse, but he doesn’t ask. Stan’s entitled to his private emotions, as well as the ones he makes public.

“Speaking of, who else is coming? Am I the only one you told to come at this time?” Bill jokes to the two of them.

At that moment, as if on cue, they hear a familiar voice speaking quickly to someone.

“ – and if anything I eat has peanuts it could literally…kill me…”

They turn in unison, and the speaker slows the tide of information he’s haranguing the waitress with as he sees them.

_Eddie, _Mike thinks. Taller, but kind of exactly how he pictured him. Well, he’d grown the last time they’d seen each other, which had to be – what – college? When did he stop visiting his mother? Or did she move? Mike can’t remember. But it’s not like he knew her well. He’d often got the vibe she didn’t like him – for the same reasons various older white people in Derry didn’t, either.

He stares at them, almost like he’s shocked to see them there. Which is impossible, because he knew what he was coming here for. “Wow,” he says. “So this is really happening, then.”

***

Eddie doesn’t know what he was expecting, but looking at three of his childhood friends is a surreal experience. It’s been so long since he actually saw any of them, in the flesh. They both look older and like no time has passed. Eddie feels simultaneously like a middle-aged man with anxiety and a job and a wife and like a thirteen-year-old boy, smaller and still full of anxiety but excitement too. He feels exhilarated.

They all smile when they see him. “You’re still harassing waitstaff with your allergies? After the Olive Garden incident of ’96?” Stan says first, wryly.

Eddie holds up an indignant finger. “Hey, you wouldn’t have thought it was quite so funny if that HAD turned out to be a peanut, Stan, so screw you!”

They laugh at this, easily. “It’s really great to see you, too, Eddie,” Stan replies, grinning. He looks tired but, in this moment at least, he looks genuinely cheery.

“Get over here already,” Mike says, warmly.

He walks up to them, and is beginning to catch up with them when a gong sounds behind them. Eddie briefly wonders if one of the waitstaff rung it, but turns around to see the final three standing next to the gong – and feels for a moment like he’s missed a step. Some part of him feels like a puzzle that’s been missing pieces for a long time. Ben seems to have met up with Beverly outside, who looks really good – and Richie. Of course Richie fucking banged on the gong, that’s the most Richie move ever.

Richie looks at him and for a second he feels anxious and seventeen, and remembers Richie’s old car. _The Grizzly_, he called it because it was a rusted reddish-brown, it growled in a scary way and getting into it was as much a death trap as feeding yourself into a grizzly bear’s jaws. But then Richie says something, and everyone is coming over and he pushes the feeling to the back of his mind again.

***

Bev is overwhelmed, almost, by the compound effect of seeing them all together again.

It’s kind of weird to see them all, some after longer than others, but the weirdest thing is how normal it feels to be together again – it’s almost like they’re sixteen and it’s a Saturday night in town where they’ll go see a movie at the old theatre and Richie will agitate for them to see _Wayne’s World _again, even though they’ve already seen it, and they’ll give in after much cajoling, being snuck in the back by Stan, the world’s most trustworthy-looking sixteen year old employee even on his days off, spreading out across a whole row, prodding each other and throwing popcorn and laughing.

And yet, they’re not kids anymore. Everyone seems a little more tired. She knows she is. She makes her way across the group, to where Mike and Stan are. 

Mike lights up, seeing her and she finds herself smiling so widely her cheeks are already starting to hurt, but she couldn’t stop if she tried. “Mike!” she exclaims in delight, throwing her arms around him. He hugs her back tightly.

“It’s been too long, wow,” he says, fondly, if not also a little wistfully.

She shakes her head. “I know, I’m sorry, life has just gotten really…you know. Busy,” she finishes, lamely. How is she supposed to explain why she let herself fall out of contact? She idly adjusts her cardigan sleeves, pulling them further down over her wrists.

“Cold?” Stan asks, casually. If she didn’t know better she’d say _too_ casual, the way he used to be a little _too _good at observing you, figuring out your problem before you told him. But he smiles at her, and she can’t help but be overwhelmed with affection. There’s grief in there, too, but she doesn’t want to start crying right now if she can help it, so she pushes it down.

“You know me, I’m always cold,” she covers, jokingly. “I’m so happy to see you, Stan,” she says, and he smiles but there’s something in his eyes that she can’t stand to look at, so she just pulls him into a hug too.

“Same to you, Bev,” he says, quietly, and there’s something grateful in his voice.

***

The seven of them are gathered at the table in the backroom, and Richie might not have felt this good in years.

The waitress brings them their drinks, and they raise them to each other.

“I now call this meeting of the Losers Club to order,” Richie says, half-joking, but everyone cheers.

If it weren’t for the physical evidence in front of his eyes, he would say it’s impossible that they’ve been away from each other for so long. They slip back into their old rhythms so easily, talking, laughing, joking, saying “Hey, fuck you, Richie, but I like my job,” with their little pinched up angry expression, well, he had to try and pull it out of him, for old times sake – well, ok, that last one is just Eddie, but what is he supposed to do, just _listen _to Eddie talking about being a risk analyst or whatever the fuck? It’s a public service. And Stan doesn’t need to be any _more _miserable.

He’s aware that he’s not particularly mature even when he’s sober, and he’s had more than one drink tonight. Something about seeing them again though, something about how Eddie looks exactly like the kind of adult he pictured – anxious and pained and easy to annoy, but in an adult polo and slacks, because _of course _– means he has to annoy him every chance he gets, just to see the look on his face.

And he’s married to someone, but he won’t rise to Richie’s bait to talk about her. He can’t even imagine it. The kind of fucking crazy-person who’d have married him, with all his habits of talking to the waiter about his allergies, and ranting about the airport he flew through when he came down from NYC and how people don’t even think about how airports are incubation points for diseases, and his tic of pointing when he gets annoyed. _Myra. _What kind of a name is that, anyway?

He talks to everyone. He talks to Bev, who’s sitting next to him, jokes with her, remembers being seventeen and drunk out of their gourds and laughing so hard he thought he was going to die, just the two of them in a darkened playground after some party, maybe? He wants to say _god, I’ve missed your sense of humour, _but it comes out as some kind of dumb voice, some joke that makes her laugh anyway.

He’s missed Stan’s eye-rolls, feels like he’s earning them like a badge of honour in response to him giving Eddie shit, his little unwilling smirk at Richie getting Eddie to ask who Richie had married. Everyone’s doing a pretty good job of pretending they just came back to see each other, abruptly and out of the blue, just because they all needed to. The funny thing is, he’d believe it. Stan laughs with everyone, but he doesn’t drink as much. Richie doesn’t like the set of his face, in the moment when his smile fades a little. Surprisingly, maybe for him, he doesn’t touch that. There are more fun elephants in the room to point out.

“Speaking of the, well, not-elephant in the room, Ben…” he says, because he can’t _not _say something about it. Everyone – except maybe him, but he’d barely been sleeping when he’d gotten the call from Mike anyway, and then he’d barely slept since (and realised as he was throwing clothes into a bag that he maybe he's never had clean clothes, given the evidence before him) – everyone has grown up pretty well, and the little bit of grey creeping into Bill’s brown hair makes him look kind of distinguished and literary in a way he's probably thrilled about, but – _Ben. _He’s pretty sure he hasn’t _seen _Ben since graduation, maybe – no, wait, Christmas Break, freshman year, when he’d come back home to see his parents and Ben had been back from Harvard, and Mike had been back from MU, and they’d all gone to the theatre to see, what was it, something that Ben and Mike decided on over _12 Monkeys, _fucking _right_ and who says no to sci-fi and mid-90s Brad Pitt, but apparently them, they’d decided on _Jumanji, _and it hadn’t actually been that bad, but he’d been thinking about how he was going to go see _12 Monkeys _when he got back to California, because at least there they _got it man_. God, he’d been going through a real pretentious little shit phase. At the time, Ben had looked how he’d always looked – a nice, straitlaced kid who’d never shed his puppy fat, and he’d never really given it a second thought. But now – he can’t help making some crack about him looking like every Brazillian footballer, little voice in the back of his drunk brain snidely wondering why _that _was the first thing to come to mind, you’re slipping, shut _up. _Everyone laughs in agreement, though, so maybe it’s not so bad. Ben tries to downplay it, like it’s just a few pushups, and not a change in diet, exercise, and even grooming, almost like he’s embarrassed, but why would he be embarrassed? Eddie actually agreed with him, saying, “You’re like, _hot _now,” and he’s surprised that Eddie would agree with him about anything.

Eddie, though. He’d forgotten the way that his eyes crinkle up when he laughs, more wrinkled now but still the same, like for a moment he forgets all the anxieties life has given him and just gives into it. Richie’s drunk enough to annoy him into challenging him to an arm wrestle – some artwork he’d seen somewhere crosses his mind briefly, _you construct intricate _– and maybe Eddie’s drunk enough to take the bait, and to concentrate but in a looser way than he’s been all night, the kind of fun that came out occasionally when he was really comfortable, hanging out in the hammock, lazy summer afternoons at the quarry, a few hours and drinks into a high school party. Richie wants to lean over and touch his face, the line of his jaw, but he’s not _that _drunk yet so he doesn’t. He catches Stan’s eye unwittingly, and he’d forgotten that deeply annoying knowing smile too.

***

Mike heads outside for a smoke. He’s been meaning to quit – to be honest, it comes and goes – but lately has been just stressful enough that he’s just needed the relief of it. The night has gone way better than he could’ve hoped though, but it’s like he knew if he just brought everyone back it would be like old times.

He sees Bev is already there. She sees him, walking to stand beside her, and her expression turns sheepish. “Filthy habit, I know. Am I needed to break up a fight?”

He grins, and holds up his own pack. “Can’t judge. And not since I left, but y’know, Richie is Richie.”

She smiles wider, around her cigarette. “True. And Eddie is Eddie. Just like old times.”

Mike raises his eyebrows briefly at her. “I’ll say.”

She smiles more, a little wickedly, and blows out smoke.

He lights a cigarette, and takes a drag, blows it out. His head is spinning a little from the alcohol, it’s been a while since he’s been group drinking. The cold air feels good on his face.

Bev looks at him, her expression kind of soft and concerned. “Are you ok, Mike? You’ve been the person arranging all of this, it’d stress me out.”

He looks back at her, surprised. “I’m – I’m fine,” he says, then looks at the cigarette in his hand. “I mean, I should probably quit – I have before, but it’s just – well, the most important thing is that, is that Stan’s doing ok.”

She nods, and her eyes are glistening. It looks strange through the smoky haze from their cigarettes.

“Stan,” she says in a husky, quiet voice after a moment. “I can’t believe it. I’m so grateful he still had you. You stayed in touch.”

She looks tortured saying it, staring out ahead into the dark carpark.

Mike feels a familiarly cold hand of guilt creeping up from his gut. “I – I wasn’t there, though,” he admits, remorsefully. “We hadn’t emailed in…maybe a year? Maybe more?”

He shakes his head, and takes a drag.

Bev looks at him, almost angry, wet-eyed. “I know you’re not blaming yourself for that, right, Mike?”

He wants to say something, but he can’t find the words.

“I – “ he tries, but his voice dies in his throat.

She looks at him. “Mike – you stayed in touch with him longest, if anyone shouldn’t feel guilty…” she says, a little drunk, eyes burning with emotion. The same emotions they’ve both probably been repressing all day, all week. Since… 

“Then I should’ve known better than any of you where he was at, mentally, ok?” Mike bursts out, with a tense exhalation of smoke.

He looks at her, and his head is buzzing with thoughts and regrets and too much alcohol. “Even when we were talking, I could…I knew something was up with him. But I didn’t ask him about it, because I thought he – I thought he didn’t need me to. That wasn’t really my job. Not now, anyway,” he says, and takes a final drag on the cigarette, then drops it to stub out under his heel. “I should’ve…kept up with him,” he finishes, quietly, regretfully.

“Hey,” she says forcefully, but putting her hand on his arm in an exceedingly gentle way. “Stop doing this to yourself, ok? You’ll go crazy. Even if you’d seen him every day since before it happened you might not have changed anything.” She drops her cigarette, stomps it out. “Do you know where his wife is? Was she around?”

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. He said they were separated, but he hasn’t said anything more about it yet. I didn’t want to push him.”

She frowns. “Poor Stan….God, I think I only met her once. I liked her." She pauses. "Wish I’d come to his wedding, at least…I think we were overseas, and I hadn’t actually _talked_ to him in forever, and Tom didn’t want –“ she breaks off with a short, bitten off gasp, like she’s burnt herself, but she’s no longer holding a lit cigarette.

“It was nice,” he says, smiling a little at the memory. He’d given a speech, he’d watched a beaming Stan break a glass underfoot as everyone had cheered. He’d seen Eddie for the last time before tonight - must have been before he met his wife because he’d come by himself - and they’d felt the disappearances in their group but for a moment it felt like old times again, the four of them together again at least. “We missed you.”

She nods, looking regretful.

He looks at her. “Are you ok, Bev?”

She looks surprised, and then nods quickly. “Yeah.”

He can tell it’s the same kind of answer he’d given her earlier, dashed-off, untrue. But he doesn’t know if he should just ask her.

“So you and – Tom –“ he says, pausing on the name because he’s never met the man but it already inspires uneasiness in him. “ – What did he think about you dropping everything to come down here?”

A flicker of something – fear, maybe, or rage, or both? – passes through her expression, but she nods and looks back and it’s gone. “He understood. You have to be there for family.”

He decides he doesn’t believe this for a moment, but the good Lord help anyone who wanted to stop a determined Bev doing what she wanted to do – or at least, that’s how he’d known her as a girl, and he doubts she’s changed that much as an adult.

He decides not to pursue it tonight. Her expression takes on a saddened, musing set. “I can understand why Patty didn’t come though,” she says suddenly, softly. “I don’t even know what I’d do…if Tom and I weren’t together, and that happened…” She looks a little haunted.

He looks at the ground. “I wish she were,” he says quietly. “I think he’d be happier – if she were. Instead it’s just me, when I can be around.”

She squeezes his arm again, looking at him with such affection it almost hits him physically, like a wave, like sunshine on skin. They used to plan to go to the beach together, to take one of their summer days to drive out near Portland, Cape Elizabeth. They only went once, but he’d always meant to go again – why hadn’t they gone again?

“I don’t know what everyone else thought, but he seemed plenty happy tonight that you were here. That you did this. I reckon it means a lot.”

He looks at her, and can’t help but smile gratefully. He’s so grateful she’s here, that she’s back. “God I’ve missed you,” he says, and then, with a rush of guilt. “I’m sorry I didn’t keep up with you either.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t even start – and I hope you know, even though it doesn’t really make it better, that it wasn’t like I was picking –“ she cuts herself off, and her eyes are misty and painful again. She looks at him, as if he could telepathically intuit what she’s trying to say to him. Sometimes, before, he used to think they almost could.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come back for their funeral,” she says, in the smallest voice, like she’s used all of her energy even just saying it to him.

He’s almost surprised by this, hadn’t expected her to bring it up. “Well I guess it’s – it was a while ago now. I know you sent flowers. I know you had a busy life. I understood,” he says, genuinely.

She looks at him, eyes full and already threatening to overflow. “I think I was scared…to come back, then. I’m so sorry,” she says, starting to cry.

He pulls her into a hug.

“It’s ok,” he comforts her. “It’s ok. I think they were just proud of you for getting the hell out.”

She returns the hug tightly, crying softly into his shoulder. “I missed you so much, Mike. My favourite and best brother.”

He chuckles into the embrace. “Your _only_ brother, Bev.”

_He’s thirteen, and the summer is almost over. _

_He’s lost and gained a lot, this summer; one that’s been one of the most terrifying and fulfilling summers of his short life. _

_There’s been a lot of news interest in what happened, a lot of journalists and media people ringing up and knocking on their doors and things of that nature. Miriam tells them all in no uncertain times that they’re not to bother her foster child at all, not when he’s home and not when he walks to school. Ernie has taken to giving him lifts, even though driving too much taxes him, just because of the fear of what happened, the unlikely but mentally prevalent fear that it could happen again._

_He helps Miriam prepare as she ducks around cleaning, and helps get into difficult places and lift things when her arthritis plays up. “Miriam, you don’t need to dust behind that – this place will already seem like a huge improvement from where she was –“ _

_Miriam looks anxiously around and then back at him. “Yeah, but I’m just – I don’t know, I want her to feel like this is a caring home?”_

_He smiles, and for a moment is quietly grateful to have ended up with these people. He doesn’t always feel that – and he will miss his parents till the day he dies, he knows it, especially because there are things that an otherwise well-meaning and kind older white couple will never understand about his experiences in this town – but they really do care, and he knows how much worse things could be. He’s seen it. _

_“Trust me, I think she’ll know,” he says, and Miriam smiles at him with unexpected emotion. They’re caring people, they give him a nice life, but they’re not particularly given to big emotional scenes either publicly or privately. _

_“Thanks, Michael,” she says, simply. They always call him Michael, even though almost everyone else calls him Mike, even teachers at school. He doesn’t mind, but it’s the sort of thing he knows would drive Richie crazy. _

_Ernie should be back from Bill’s place any moment. Thinking about it makes his heart twinge – after everything they went through together, all that he still has nightmares about - the fear that drove her to get out of her house, to finally talk to Bill. He thinks she might be the strongest of them all. Defiant. Stubborn. Hanging on. _

_Bill’s parents were kind enough to let her stay temporarily – he can only imagine their recent grief wouldn’t allow them to see another child suffer, if they could help it – but there weren’t many registered foster carers in the whole area surrounding Derry, and a decision had been made that in order for Bev to be able to continue her studies without interruption (and maybe because of their now-public link) Miriam and Ernie Baxter were the best household to situate her in going forward. He remembers reading the official letter with them, remembering that phrase, and God, the relief._

_He hears Ernie’s old Ford F100 pickup rolling into the driveway, and he’s suddenly nervous. He does know her – and he feels some strong, inexplicable bond to all of them, probably due to what that therapist had referred to as a “shared traumatic experience” – but he hasn’t actually known her that long. Maybe she won’t like being here. Maybe she’ll wish she could’ve stayed with Bill. He’d understand that – there’s something very close between them, especially in the way that they look at each other, in the way their hands find each other easily. _

_He hears the door open, and he and Miriam are standing in the hallway, waiting for them. _

_Ernie looks more solemn than usual – he’s always been a quiet man, but maybe he too is thinking of what it took for her to get here. _

_Bev looks both better and worse than the last time he saw her. She looks skinny and pale, but her short, vivid hair is cleaner and neater. Her bruises have aged, they’re not as vivid now but they’ve gone a sickly purplish-green colour. Luckily there’s only one on her face, not as bad. She’s less wired with anxiety, but more exhausted. She looks strangely timid, on the threshold with the door behind her._

_“Nice to see you again, Beverly,” Miriam says, in a warm but careful way. “We’re so glad to have you with us.” _

_Bev smiles at her. “Thanks, Miriam. I appreciate you and Ernie taking – taking me in,” she says, stumbling over one of the words like a missed step. _

_Miriam seems not to be able to contain herself and hugs Bev, who hugs back. Mike wonders how long it’s been since an adult hugged her, a woman. He blinks. Ernie gives him a serious look, and then nods. He nods back. Somehow he knows what this means. Help us look after her. Be there for her. _

_“We’ll get your things in your new room then,” Ernie says, gruffly, after they’ve broken apart. She doesn’t really have much, just a bag – it’s small enough that she could probably bring it upstairs, but he senses Ernie would like a moment away too._

_“And then give you some time to rest, dear. I’ve made something for afternoon tea, but only come down if you’re feeling up to it,” Miriam says, and looks at the two of them, smiling a little sadly. “I’ll just be in the kitchen, down the hall, if you need me.” _

_He thinks that she’s deliberately giving them a moment alone, and he’s grateful to her for it. _

_He looks at Bev, and doesn’t have time to worry if she’s happy to see him because she’s thrown her arms around him. He can feel that she’s crying a little, softly, into his shoulder. _

_“I can’t believe I’m finally…here. And you’re here.” she says, in the smallest voice. _

_“Welcome home, then, Bev,” he says, quietly, back. _

***

“W-why didn’t we ever get that drink, what the fuck?” Bill laughs, to Richie. They’ve all switched seats again, all desperate to get face time with each other.

Richie shrugs, laughing. “I blame L.A, that fucking city makes you think you’re _so busy_!”

Bill nods, laughing. “God, I know. It’s so easy to b-buy into your own bullshit.” His stutter is coming back a bit probably because of the drinking, but probably also some kind of psychological response to being here, with these people again.

Richie snorts. “Fucking, right? It’s all, oh I’m an artisan craft-maker, oh I’m a photographer who gets paid to make sponsored posts on Instagram, oh there’s this great little vegan café you HAVE to try…”

Bill laughs. “And I w-work in the writing/film area so that’s literally _everyone _I t-talk to, like, oh you h-haven’t heard of this new k-kind of yoga? Oh, h-have you had a _s-soundbath _before? And all these fucking actors talking about what new su-p-perfood – ” _P_s have always been hard. “ – They’re going to obsess over next, I swear to God, s-sometimes, I really fucking can’t with Audra’s friends –“

Richie’s laughing so hard he’s crying, and Bill realises, as he’s been realising at different points tonight, how much he’s missed his oldest best friend.

He’s missed everyone, but it’s unthinkable that he’s lived in the same city as his oldest childhood friend for literally maybe over a decade, and it’s taken them coming home to actually catch up again. Well, they’d caught up a few times when they’d both just graduated college, and Bill had just moved there, and they were young and green and unknown, but once things had started kicking off they’d gotten _too busy_. He doesn’t miss the shit jobs, or the scraping together for rent money, but he misses the feeling they had together – young and wild, immortal, drunkenly rambling around Silver Lake. With Richie, especially then, you had the feeling that you could do anything, he’d break down the door for you if he had to.

They’ve gotten onto Springsteen, somehow, and in a fit of pique that there’s apparently no jukebox in here when he is convinced there really _should be _one, Richie starts playing a song from his phone. Maybe Bill's just really drunk, but the opening harmonica actually gets him in a visceral way, in his chest, he’s sixteen and emotional and listening to his dad’s records with Richie.

“_The dogs on main street howl because they uuundeeerstaaaand, if I could take one moment into my hands.” _They sing along to the familiar chorus, he hasn’t heard it ages. Maybe because Springsteen makes him think too much of home, and Richie, and small town angst in general.

Ben, Stan and Eddie are over the other side of the table, probably discussing business or something – he realises he doesn’t know what Stan does, they’d been so busy talking about other things he didn’t ask and now he feels like he should’ve – and the only reaction this gets from them is a range of fond-to-annoyedly fond smiles, a look in their direction, and then back to their conversation.

“_Mister I ain’t a boy, no I’m a man,” _they continue, and it hits harder now, because when he was a boy he thought he understood it, but now he really understands the bottled-up resentment and regret of the line.

Richie shakes his head. “He just fuckin _gets it, _Billiam.”

Bill splutters a laugh at the return of his old, dumb and very occasional nickname. “T-that he does, Trashmouth.”

They’re still singing when Mike and Bev return from their smoke break, looking happy but strangely worn out – Bev’s eyes are a little red, and so are Mike’s, but he knows better than to comment on it here and now. He meets her eye and she smiles in a familiar way, _no it’s ok. You don’t have to worry. _

“What’s happening here?” Mike asks, mock-incredulously.

“We leave you alone for TWO SECONDS, and you let them start sad-drunk-singing Springsteen, c’mon!” Bev says, addressing the other three.

“Hey,” Eddie starts. “You know there’s no stopping them once they start with Springsteen!”

Richie laughs. “Well, I’m sorry Eds, I left my Wham! cassette in my other Walkman.”

“Fuck you,” comes Eddie’s expected retort, without any real heat, along with a chopstick that Richie dodges, laughing like he’d wanted this to happen. But Richie had always gotten a kind of deep amusement and satisfaction out of baiting Eddie in this silly kind of way. Bill looks at Richie and smiles.

“Time to p-pay, I think?” he says, and the group agrees, picking themselves up sluggishly.

It’s when they’re lining up to pay, though, that the old man paying ahead of them squints at them all as he goes to leave.

“Aren’t you the, uh, the Denbrough boy?” he asks, wheezy and a little imperious.

Bill stiffens. No good has ever come of being referred to as ‘the Denbrough boy’. Or worse, the ‘older Denbrough boy’. He tries to keep a polite smile on his face, though. “Yes, that’s m-me.”

He’s aware of a few automatic hands on his shoulders.

The man squints at them. “It was your brother?” he asks.

Richie looks actually angry on his behalf.

His smile fades. “Yes,” he says simply, trying very hard to get it out in one syllable.

The man doesn’t pick up on this somehow, though. He’s older than them but maybe only ten-fifteen years. Would have been well into his twenties when it happened.

He shakes his head. “Hell of a thing.” He looks at Bill, then at the rest of them and he says, “Oh I remember you all now, you must have been no more than twelve, thirteen, right? You were in the papers, and on the news…what did they used to call you – the lucky seven? That’s right – the Lucky Seven.”

Everyone has gone very quiet. The man is speaking loud enough for a few of the restaurant patrons to hear, and some are craning for a look, some are confused, but at least one person is watching with knowing interest.

Bill sees that Stan’s gone white as a sheet, and can’t blame him. It’s something that’s still capable of stirring a feeling of dread deep in his own stomach, even just at the memory.

_The Derry Police Department, Bill thinks, is busier than he would have expected. But especially today, they’re probably struggling more than usual. _

_He looks down at his arms, and they’re pale and goose-bumped under dirt and blood. He didn’t get anything too bad, just some scrapes and bruises. He’s lucky. He shivers, thinking about it._

_He looks around the room. It’s some kind of waiting room that they’ve been stuffed into, until the adults can figure out what to do with them, until their parents can all be called. They all look pretty sorry, together, his mother’s going to have a heart attack seeing them all dirty and bloodied. _

_They haven’t spread out too much, like they don’t want to go too far from each other, even in this small room. He’s glad for it, the comfort of them all together. Bev is resting her head on his shoulder, exhausted, and if he could give her a dreamless sleep he’d do everything in his power to. She’s got her own cuts and bruises, too. He’s not even sure what blood is whose, or whether it belongs to – _

_Probably some of it, but he can’t deal with that right now. _

_Mike is sitting on the ground in front of him, arm around Richie, because he had been shaking. He and Bev need comforting the most right now, after everything, he thinks, and unconsciously reaches a hand down to hold Richie’s shoulder. Richie doesn’t shake him off, and Bill gets a sense that he’s grateful for the weight of it, leaning into it. Eddie leans up next to him, and it’s a mark of how terrifying and fucked-up everything in the last day – really the last week, but especially when they went back into the house – has been, because they’re not even bickering with each other like usual, they’re unnaturally quiet, knocking their skinny legs together, Eddie’s non-broken arm around Richie’s other side._

_Eddie looks so forlorn with his broken arm. It had been broken before they’d gone into the house on Neibolt street, and Bill thinks about the courage to have experienced that pain and still come back with them, especially for him. Ben is on Mike’s other side, Bev reaching a hand down every so often to steady Ben the way Bill wanted to steady Richie. Ben and Mike are talking quietly, maybe just because they need to talk about something, to stop themselves thinking about what’s happened. He wishes he could be holding them all up. But they’re all touching in some way, heads, shoulders, arms, leaning against legs. He feels Stan shivering beside him, they’re all still a little damp and cold, and maybe one day in the future they’ll be allowed to shower and change and go to sleep because it feels like they’ve been here an eternity. _

_He looks at Stan, beside him. Stan really looks bad – his parents really are going to freak – his eye is going an ugly dark purple from where he was hit, and the adult-finger-shaped bruises on the sides of his face, and the cut above his eyebrow add up to a nasty picture of their recent violence. His eyes are still red, and he sniffs every so often. Bill returns his arm around him, and Stan looks grateful. _

_“When do you think they’ll come for us?” Stan asks quietly. _

_“I d-d-don’t know,” Bill says, honestly. “I h-hope they b-b-believe us.” He can’t tell if he’s stuttering worse because of the cold, fear or shock. _

_Stan nods, seriously. He looks at Bill. “You think they won’t believe us? We have proof…and there’s a lot of us. Why would we make up something so horrible, especially with what happened to –“_

_He breaks off, blinking. Bill wants to hug him, appreciates him being so upset for Bill’s own tragedy. Most of them hadn’t known Georgie more than Bill’s brother, and some of them had only ever known him as the person who was missing from Bill’s life, driving him to obsess over the sewers. But Stan – he’d known Stan since first grade, they’d often slept over at each other’s houses, they’d gone trick or treating together every year, he could remember watching Georgie grow up from being an infant to a little kid. Richie and Eddie had known this too, but Stan seemed to have been hit harder by it._

_He doesn’t know how to say thank-you for this, so he just pulls Stan a little closer. Stan’s head droops onto his right shoulder, tiredly. Bill thinks about how strange it is that he would already have done anything for the three friends he had at the beginning of summer, but he couldn’t have ever predicted this scene – this new level of closeness between them all. Like after everything they’ve been through together, hugging and holding onto each other isn’t the most terrifying thing they could imagine. As long as no one else dies, then what do they care, anymore?_

_The door opens and everyone looks up. An older looking cop wearing a suit – well Bill’s assuming he’s a cop – comes in, looking as exhausted as Bill feels, and behind him is a procession of people, some of whom are arguing in voices so loud they’re echoing into the room from the hall. _

_Their parents look ashen faced, some angry, some terrified, when they get in and take in the sight of all of them huddled together, dirty and bloodied and bruised and definitely still smelling of the sewers. _

_ Then suddenly, there’s a lot of movement, as various parents rush over to them to cuddle and berate them. The serious, worried-looking older couple must be Mike’s foster parents, looking like they’re not even sure what to say to him. He grips Bev’s hand before he has to let it go because his grief-stricken mother is pulling him away into the tightest hug she’s ever given him. Bev’s eyes were anxious and afraid, but by some small mercy, they don’t seem to have called her father in. He wishes he could bring her into the comfort of his mother, but he can’t. _

_He can distantly hear Eddie’s mother getting angry at him, edging on hysteria. He’s never really liked her, but she must have been terrified when they called her. It must have been all her worst nightmares about him, after all her efforts to smother him and keep him with her. He can’t really hate her for that. _

_“What in the goddamn hell, Bill?” his dad asks, in the same furious-anxious tone. The same voice he used to tell Bill to stop obsessing over where Georgie could have been taken. “Why would you –“ _

_“Zach!” his mom scolds his dad, like they’ve been having this argument on the way over. She hasn’t let go of him, just holding him by his arms now, like she can’t physically let him go. She looks into his eyes, and he feels even worse to see her expression. The same wild, terrified grieving look in her eyes as when Georgie had only been missing maybe twelve hours, before it became one day, two, four, a week and then more. “Bill, they told us you all…” she struggles for the right word. “Encountered, that man on the news – please tell me you didn’t go looking for him, Bill, please tell me –“ _

_He’s so tired, and dirty and still kind of in shock, and he can’t lie to her. “I f-f-found h-him, Mom,” he says, and finds himself crying. What little colour there is left in their faces drains away. “H-he took G-g-ge-“ he says, but he can’t get it out, and suddenly both his parents are hugging him so tightly he almost can’t breathe, but he doesn’t care. He can barely remember the last time his dad had hugged him. Certainly not since Georgie’s disappearance. _

_When they release him, his mother says, tears still rolling down her face, “You could’ve been killed, do you realise that? What that would do to us?” _

_She doesn’t even sound angry, but deeply grief-stricken, and he almost wishes she was angry. It would hurt less. _

_“H-h-he had Bev, and R-Richie. We - I c-couldn’t let it h-happen again –“ he says, and starts crying again. “I’m s-s-sorry-” _

_His mom just gathers him up again, comfortingly, stroking his head like when he was little. “You’re alive, and that’s all I care about,” she says, kissing his head. _

_Later, the detective tells them all that they’ll need witness statements and to get other things from their clothes and skin to test against their database, and then they’ll be able to go home, but that part of it is a more of a blur, and he can only remember the cops saying how lucky they were, how lucky, how lucky to have escaped, but he doesn’t feel too lucky._

_*** _

Being recognised, even just by the old man – although other people must have heard of it, at least – really puts a dampener on the night. It was the best reminder they’d had yet of why most of them have spent years avoiding this town like the plague. And yet, before it they could have all forgotten why they were friends in the first place, just that they were friends and that the only important thing was that they liked hanging out together so much.

Stan can’t quite forget why they’re here, and worse, what brought them together in the first place. Maybe the two are linked. He feels like people want a clear explanation, _why did you do this, show your work, _and he doesn’t know what to give them. And for most people, he doesn’t think they’re entitled to everything that added up to …

But he’d actually been having a good time tonight, even though he couldn’t totally forget why they were all here. They were kind enough not to even bring it up, so he almost forgot.

But of course, someone in this town always fucking remembers. Someone always has to point it out, like you’ve somehow forgotten. Even though they would consider you saying something like, “Oh hey, remember when your wife left you? Remember when your childhood dog died? Remember that time in tenth grade when you got your ass kicked in front of everyone?” to be incredibly rude and intrusive, they bring it up. But it’s ok for them, because it was _on the news. _

Mike looks guilty, like it’s somehow his fault. Mike has always put so many burdens on himself, sometimes Stan wants to grab him and shout, “Stop being so hard on yourself! It’s not your fault what other people do!”

Not that he’d ever actually do that. Not that he wants to yell at Mike either, but it’s upsetting to watch someone try so hard and accept so much blame for things that aren’t his fault.

“So, we’re all going back to the guesthouse then?” Richie asks. “I think there’s a bar there that has probably been there since Gettysburg, but I could use a drink.”

“We haven’t had enough?” Eddie retorts.

“Well, you’re still talking, so I need to keep drinking,” Richie replies, with a smirk. Eddie flips him off, making a face.

Stan thinks about it. He should probably go back home, because it’s getting late – but it doesn’t feel like home anymore. It feels changed and unknown and empty, and he really doesn’t want to go back home in the mood he’s in.

“I should probably head home, anyway,” Mike says. “It doesn’t make sense for me to go to the guesthouse and back tonight.”

“Yeah, I’ve been on trains all day, I’m exhausted. Raincheck, Rich?” Bev says.

“I’m pretty beat too, from travelling in today. I’m probably going to just crash when I get back when I get to my room,” Ben says, yawning. “I’m not even sure I should be driving. Do you think it would be ok if I left the rental car here and picked it up tomorrow morning?’

Eddie nods. “I hear that. We might have to get a cab home I think, tired and drunk is not a good combination for night driving. Eighty-seven percent of motor vehicle accidents –“

Richie blows a loud raspberry. “I’m gonna cut you off there, chief - the biggest silent killer is, in fact, being bored to death.”

Eddie makes that face again. Stan can feel himself rolling his eyes, almost automatically. Neither of them sees it, because they’re too busy bickering with each other.

“Where’s your sense of adventure, compadres?” Richie asks, animatedly. “Are we all doing the _sensible _thing?”

Bill nods. “You know, I’m in. But I’m n-not even sure that b-bar is staffed after-hours.”

“I think I should probably head back to my parents’ place,” Stan says, even though he wants to say he’ll go with them. But the _sensible thing_ is where he lives, and if he’d never met these people he probably would never have done anything not sensible ever. Which is of course why he’s so grateful to know them. Mostly.

Richie and Mike look at him, a fleeting moment of _shit-he-shouldn’t-be-alone-tonight _crossing both their faces. It’s very quick but he’s gotten good at spotting it.

“Mikey, my man,” Richie says, performative as always, but he senses this is for his benefit, specifically. “Do you have any drinkable alcohol at your place? And nothing fancy, we may have all matured -” Eddie coughs disparagingly, “but our taste in liquor has not.”

Mike catches the invisible ball Richie’s thrown out to him with this. “Yeah, well I think I have some things you might like. Seems like Ben, Bev and Eddie are going back to the guesthouse, but anyone who wants to come back with me and Richie is welcome.”

Bill nods. “Sure.”

Mike looks at Stan, and Richie slings an arm around his shoulders. “Whaddya say, Staniel?” he asks. That nickname was one of many dumb ones that Richie used to use, but damn if it doesn’t warm him to hear it now.

Stan wavers. He knows that they’re doing this really to keep an eye on him, but them going to this effort for him is also enough to make him want to cry. Grateful tears, though. “But I’d have to drive home really late…” he says, but he’s this close to giving in.

“Come on,” Richie wheedles.

Mike looks at Stan, and smiles. “If it helps, I have a spare room and a very comfortable couch. You could crash if it gets too late.”

“Well, I know I’m the most sober of us all here, so maybe I can drive you guys back?” Stan says, and Richie grins.

“That’s my boy! Yeah!” he cheers. “Although I’m not leaving my car here, if it gets stolen the rental place will eat me alive.”

In the end, it’s decided that he’ll drive Mike’s car with Mike and Bill in tow, Richie will drive himself (to Eddie’s protestations that he’s drunk, and Richie’s assertion that he has high tolerance, and more protests from Eddie that high tolerance isn’t an excuse for drink-driving) and Bev – who walked, apparently it wasn’t far from the guesthouse, according to her – will get a cab with Eddie and Ben.

She gives him a hug. “I’m not sure we’ll be up to breakfast tomorrow, but what if we do a brunch thing?”

He smiles at this. “Maybe you can come around to mine. I’m pretty sure I’ve got enough stuff unpacked for brunch.”

She smiles, and there’s grief there, but also a lot of warmth. He doesn’t ask her about the former, because who’s to say it’s all about him. “See you in the morning, love,” she says to him.

“See you in the morning,” he says, and he feels like he’s promising her.

***

Mike’s place isn’t what Bill expected. It’s an old building – then again most buildings in town are old buildings – but it’s been renovated to keep its old character. He seems to have a lot of books, and there seems to be a lot of places to curl up and read. Bill appreciates this quality in a home. He thinks it suits Mike, can imagine him here reading, probably with a forgotten coffee next to him.

It’s a bigger place than he expected, too. “You can afford this p-place?” he says, and shakes his head. He hasn’t stuttered so much in one night for ages. It’s _definitely_ being back here again, maybe even psychosomatic in some kind of way. Then again, he can’t discount how much he’s had to drink.

“Yeah, aren’t you like, a teacher?” Richie asks suspiciously, looking around. He looks at Mike. “You doing a Walter White? You breaking bad? I wouldn’t judge, but I’d advise against shaving your head and growing a goatee. Well, actually, you might be able to pull it off. You _don’t_ have cancer, right?”

Stan makes a strangled noise and Bill groans. “Richie.”

Richie shrugs. “What? That’s how it starts, man.”

Mike shakes his head, smiling like the joke is stupid but he can’t help himself. “No, Richie. I’m perfectly healthy, you just forgot what non-Los Angeles-rent prices are like, compared to small towns in Maine. _Even_ with teacher wages,” he adds, archly, to Richie.

Bill laughs, which turns into a sigh. “G-god, if that isn’t true. The L.A. h-housing market is _p-painful_.” He does _like _his house, but it’s hard to forget what he paid for it, and the sense that it’s a little too big for just the two of them.

Richie makes a pained noise of agreement. “Yep. Paid out the ass for my condo, and I’m not even there half the time.” 

“Well, I seem to have misplaced the world’s smallest violin, but excuse us if we’re not sorry for you, given that you’re both _celebrities,_” Stan snarks, making them all laugh, even as Bill protests.

“I’m n-not a _celebrity, _n-nobody gives a shit about what w-writers do,” he says, laughing. “It’s Audra p-people care about.”

“Your hot actress wife, who is what, thirty-three? Stan, where did you put that tiny violin? I know it was _just here_…” Richie mocks, miming picking it up and playing it as everyone cracks up.

Richie looks at Mike. “Hey, Mike-and-Ikes, where’s the alcohol we were promised? You better not have lured us here under false pretenses,” he says, raising his eyebrows exaggeratedly.

Mike just shakes his head, grinning in disbelief. “Well, probably against my better judgement, but I did promise so I’m getting it.”

“Nice!” Richie says, grinning back.

Bill catches Stan eye’s, and he raises his eyebrows. Bill shrugs. _What the hell, right?_

Stan grins, mirroring the gesture.

***

Stan has ended up drinking in the living room with Richie, spread out on two ends of the couch together. Bill and Mike are looking at something in the study, something Mike seemed very excited about – Stan might have followed them, but he was in the middle of a conversation with Richie. Also, he didn’t think he could’ve actually gotten up even if he’d wanted to, because the alcohol was making him feel comfortable and sleepy. It still is, however long it’s been since they left, he’s not even sure.

He’s been trying not to drink lately, self-imposed but both his therapist and the hospital counsellor thought it was a good idea. At dinner, he wasn’t sure what would happen, and he didn’t want to bum everyone out the first time they’d all gotten together in years. This – this feels different. This reminds him of the first times he ever started drinking, outside on the porch seat or the basement, one time at the clubhouse, and Richie was always there, making him roll his eyes, making him laugh.

“And she was just yelling at me, Richie, what do you have to say about this?” Richie laughs, putting on a shrill voice.

“And you, thought, now _this, _this is the time to do a funny voice, when the girl I’m dating is already pissed off with me –” Stan remembers, laughing too.

Richie throws his hands up. “That was all I had!” he says, but he’s laughing so hard he can barely get the words out.

“And she grabbed the glass and dumped the entire strawberry milkshake on you!” Stan continues, eyes streaming, and for a while they’re both laughing too hard to talk, tears rolling down their faces.

Richie takes his glasses off to wipe his eyes, still grinning. The living room is dimly lit, kind of warm and comfortable. Richie grins at him through the gloom.

“Shit, I missed you, Staniel Day Lewis,” he says, pressing his socked foot against Stan’s. Stan vaguely remembers him doing something similar like this when they were younger, easy and affectionate, movie nights and sleepovers, the restless energy of being kids. He had expected Richie to throw a silly name in there – no one has ever been so uncomfortable saying his earnest feelings without making a joke of it in some way.

“Haven’t heard that one since what, 1993? Remember _In The Name Of The Father_?” Stan muses, grinning.

Richie groans. “I _know_. In my defence, I didn’t _realise _it was mostly courtroom scenes.”

“Hey, I didn’t mind it. I just remember _you _being upset,” Stan retorts, smirking. “Although at least you got to stare at that guy for two hours.”

Richie throws a cushion at him. “Fuck you.”

Stan cackles. “Missed you too,” he says, quieter, still smiling.

A comfortable silence settles, just for a moment.

“God, I can’t even really believe tonight happened. I’ve really missed – I’ve really missed it,” Stan says, and he knows he’s probably a little drunk if he’s saying this. “I can’t believe everyone. It’s like – I don’t recognise you all and I would know you anywhere,” he says, looking at the ceiling. He takes his glasses off for a moment, and rubs his eyes. “Except Ben,” he says, with a chuckle. “That took me a moment.”

Richie laughs loudly at this. “God, right? Straight up thought Bev had brought a male model to dinner.”

Stan laughs. “I know right? I thought he had to be like, a professionally handsome stranger who accidentally came to the wrong room. Good for him, though,” he says, fondly. “He deserves it.”

Richie nods. “You come out to L.A, everyone looks like that. It’s enough to make you think about trying to get healthier, and then you think about gym bros and CrossFit and green smoothies and never eating anything fun again and it’s like, fuck that, where’s the closest In-N-Out?”

Stan grins. “Yeah, I don’t think I’d fit in.”

Richie laughs darkly. “Well, it’s a town of people with no end of fucked-up issues and more money than they know what to do with. They can’t get enough therapists.”

Stan laughs. “Noted. Do you ever see Bill there? He’s out there in Hollywood, right?”

“Oh, gee, _Hollywood_? With all the big _stars_?” Richie mocks.

Stan throws the cushion back at him, laughing. “Fuck you.”

Richie laughs. “Yeah he is, but apparently we don’t live near each other. I probably talked to him more tonight than I have the handful of times I’ve seen him in the last decade or so. Isn’t that a stupid fucking thing?”

Stan sighs. “Extremely fucking stupid, Rich. I mean that’s more than I have since our twenties, so no judgement here.” He thinks about it. “I mean, he seems to have it all together. He looks good. And he hasn’t become an entertainment-industry L.A. tool.”

“Unlike me, you mean?” Richie snorts.

Stan chuckles. “Well, in your case you were always one, so it didn’t hurt you to be there.”

He dodges the cushion. “Fuck _you_,” Richie says fondly. “I know he was joking about them making him officially old, but I think the grey streaks look good on him. Prosesor – profsess – professorial. Fuck, you know.”

Stan chuckles. “Yeah, it’s very writerly. Distinguished.”

“There’s the word,” Richie says animatedly. “And Bev. God, Bev.”

“Mhm,” Stan agrees, an affectionate sound. He thinks about her, the light breeze lifting strands of her hair around her in the parking lot, and her sad, clever, loving eyes. “I’m so glad she came,” he says, and picks his glass up again. “I hope…I hope she’s ok.”

Richie makes a surprised sound, and looks at him. “You don’t think so?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I hope she is…But she barely talked about her husband, not anything personal, not the way I would’ve about –“ he cuts off, contemplating his glass, breathing. He takes a sip, then continues.

“I mean, then again Eddie didn’t say much about his life, more than the basics. Maybe they just wanted to hear more about us.” He grins. “He is, for one, exactly what I thought he’d be at this age.”

Richie laughs. “God, I know. Of course he’s got that job. Risk analyst. What even is that?"

Stan grins. “Yeah, I know. You certainly made fun of him enough for it tonight. Some might call it overkill.”

“The way his face still does that scrunchy thing when he’s upset? Amazing. I can’t _not _make fun of him when that happens.” Richie says with a laugh and a far-off look.

Stan smirks at him, regarding him over the top of his glass. “So…still, huh?”

Richie feigns ignorance. “Still _what_?” he says in a stupid voice, too big.

Stan gives him an unimpressed look. “Do you really want me to say it?”

Richie groans and drains his drink. “I’m really not drunk enough for this conversation.”

Stan pushes back, clumsily drunk, against Richie’s foot with his own. “I don’t think you’ll ever be, Rich.”

Richie laughs, a tired, drunken chortle. “How do you know I’m not already over it? It’s been over twenty years.”

Stan chuckles, shrugging. “Maybe you have. But seeing you guys together again tonight, I could’ve sworn nothing had changed,” he says, and takes another sip. “Also I had just the _strongest _urge to roll my eyes.”

“Fuck you,” Richie says, laughing, happier sounding. He sighs. “Ah, fuck.”

“Yep,” Stan agrees. He looks at Richie. “Does anyone else know?”

Richie looks up at the ceiling. “Nope, I was very stealthy.”

Stan laughs, a surprised cackle. He doesn’t know if any of them ever picked up on it as well, but it hadn’t exactly been subtle if you were paying attention. The way Richie always had to be centre of attention if Eddie was around. The way they used to fight over dumb things, like who got to sit in the old hammock in the clubhouse, and ended up almost sitting in each other’s laps – to spite each other, obviously.

“Hey, it’s not my fault you just had a way of knowing everything,” Richie protests, laughing.

“You didn’t make it particularly hard,” Stan says archly.

Richie flips him off.

“So,” Stan continues, looking at the ceiling, then back to him slowly. “You gonna –“

“Gonna what?” Richie cuts him off.

Stan give him his patented “Your-bullshit-is-not-going-to-work-on-me-Tozier” look.

Amazingly, it actually works on Richie, even after all this time.

“What am I supposed to –“ Richie spurts out. “I mean – it’s not like I’m going to – anyway, he’s married. To a woman, I believe we established.”

Stan blows a raspberry. “What does that prove, necessarily? Also, you’ve heard of bisexuality, yes?”

Richie blows a raspberry back. “Fuck off, you know what I mean.” He’s unusually quiet for a moment. “Anyway it doesn’t matter. I’m totally fine with him never knowing how I felt. I’m not here for that anyway.” He presses Stan’s foot. “I’m here for you. You know I love you right?” he says, and then quieter, after a moment. “Fuck me, I’m drunk.”

Stan laughs, pressing back. “Love you too, Rich. Couldn’t imagine doing this without you.”

“No…back atcha, Staniel,” Richie says quietly, and then he’s asleep in the next few seconds.

***

Mike looks for the book he’d been talking about with Bill before, wondering how he even accumulated so many books. His study feels like a mess, suddenly, and he wonders why he doesn’t try to have a less chaotic workspace. Given that he spends a lot of time in here and in the living room marking essays on the Civil War and the Gulf War and every other war in between, he can understand how it got that way, anyway. Teenagers writing about history can make one feel a little chaotic.

He finds the book, and hears Bill say from the bookshelf, “Y-you have my books?”

He freezes, screws up his eyes for a moment and then turns around. “Yeah, a few,” he says, with a guilty smile. He has more than a few, clearly, and he keeps them in good condition.

Bill looks at him with something like wonder, smiling in a warm, drunken way. In the morning, Mike’s probably going to regret continuing to drink after coming home, but right now he’s appreciating the warm, happy, dizzy feeling of it. When was the last time he even did this? Going out with some of his colleagues once, a while ago? They’re not bad people, but they’re not his people. He’s spent so long not being with his people, and he’s not even sure why.

“Do you – do you like t-them?” Bill says, jokingly enough but in such a familiar way that Mike knows he’s honestly asking. “F-fucking stutter, Jesus,” he swears, with a rueful grin. “It’s b-being here that b-brings it out, I swear. I’m f-fine at home.”

Mike grins. “I don’t know, it’s kind of nice to hear it again. Reminds me of old times. And if I remember correctly, it always came out more when you drank.”

Bill laughs. “G-good times in d-dear old Derry.”

Mike shrugs. “Maybe it’s because I’m a _bit_ drunk and sappy right now but…with you guys they were.”

Mike can’t tell because he’d opted to only turn on the lamp and not the ceiling light – too much light for being drunk this late at night – but he almost thinks he sees Bill’s eyes shining. “Yeah…they were,” he says and looks back at the bookshelf, maybe just for somewhere to look. “Y-you still haven’t told m-me what you think of m-my books…now I’m worried,” he says, grinning as he turns back. Mike can feel a thread of reality in his words, though.

Mike shakes his head, laughing. “No, no! I really like them! The _Attic Room_ is gripping, and so is _Caroline. _I think that’s my favourite actually.”

Bill looks flattered. “Usually p-people say _The Attic Room_. It’s Audra’s favourite t-too. Which is fine, b-because I love that one t-too. But _C-caroline’s _always b-been one of my favourites. Maybe my favourite,” Bill looks at him with a smile, holding his glass up to take a sip. “It’s kind of nice to know that. You always got my stories back then, too.”

“They were so good! I’m honestly so thrilled you did something with that talent, man!” Mike says, happily.

Bill beams at him. “I d-don’t think I could have w-without your support. All of y-you.”

Mike nods, smiling. “You already had it though.”

_Bill is pacing the length of the living room, which is never good. It means his thoughts – his feelings, as well, maybe – are too big to be confined to a sitting position. _

_“Stop pacing, I can’t concentrate,” Mike says, without looking up. _

_“Right, sure,” Bill says, and sits down, jiggling his leg nervously. _

_“Is he stress-pacing again?” Bev calls from the kitchen. _

_“He’s stopped. For now,” Mike calls back, turning a page. _

_“Good,” Bev calls, with a laugh in her voice. She’s making them hot drinks, which is very nice of her, but Mike’s starting to think maybe Bill should have done it – at least it would’ve given him something to do. _

_He finishes the last page of the story – probably classifiable as a short story, although it’s taken him the better part of an hour to read, and not because he was dragging his feet with it – and looks at it. The pages are typed on Bill’s old typewriter that his parents got from the second hand store on Main Street, and the ‘s’ key is slightly out of alignment, which gives it a unique look. Mike thinks it’s very Bill, somehow. _

_He looks up at Bill, who is doing a very bad job of acting calm, sitting in the old next to the couch. _

_“Bill,” he says, and Bill looks at him, looking paler than usual. _

_“It’s f-fine if you hated it, M-mike. I mean, you could say that to m-me. I can take it. I know you’re not doing this j-just to screw with m-me. I m-mean Richie w-would. And, not that it m-matters, but I’m not sure it’s even f-f-finished yet –“ he babbles, stutter coming out worse under stress. He winces. _

_Mike breaks into a smile. “If you’d let me get a word in, I’d say that I don’t know what you’re even on about, Bill – this is really good! I loved it!” _

_Bill lights up. “Really?” _

_Mike nods. “I think you should submit it to a paper, or something. I definitely think you should let everyone else read it. I think they’d all love it, man!” _

_Bill beams, relief almost leaking out of his pores, cascading off him in waves. “Well, B-bev’s read it, too.” _

_Mike grins. “See, what were you even worried about? I’m assuming she didn’t throw it back in your face?” _

_Bill chuckles, a very relieved sound. “No, she said it w-was great, too.”_

_Mike raises a quizzical eyebrow, smiling. “You didn’t trust her?”_

_Bill colours, and shakes his head. “No – no! I always trust her op-p-pinion – “ he looks down, embarrassed, and then looks back at Mike, smiling sheepishly. “I just wanted another one,” he says, and then lowers his voice. “Also – she’s m-my girlfriend, she has to be nice.” _

_Mike shakes his head. “Bill, you’re one of my best friends, and I care about you deeply, but I think we both know that’s both ridiculous and not true. If she said she liked it, she was being honest with you,” he says, quieter. _

_Bill nods. “I know, I’m b-being dumb. I d-don’t want to be that guy who’s like, taking a girl for granted. She m-means everything, she’s my best friend.”_

_“It happens,” Mike says, grinning. “At least you know that.”_

_Bill looks at him. “You don’t think it’s too scary?” he says, with a shadow of worry. “I mean after…shouldn’t I just write things that are…n-nice?”_

_Mike thinks about it. “I think…you should do whatever you need to do to work through – what happened. If that’s writing a better ending – controlling the…monster we faced –“ he says slowly, and trails off. He takes a breath. “If you deal with it through writing, then I think write what helps you. Write in honour of him. If I could honour my parents like that I would.”_

_Bill’s eyes are watery, and he throws his arms around Mike’s neck suddenly. Mike hugs him back. They’re probably still more tactile, as a group, than other boys their ages but even they’re less so now. Now that they’re sixteen going on seventeen, now they really don’t feel like kids anymore. Sometimes it feels strange to be so close._

_“I knew you’d get it, Mike. That’s w-why I wanted you to b-be one of the first to read it,” Bill says quietly, as he lets him go. _

_“You thought it was that good, huh?” Bev says, coming through and they laugh and jump up to take the hot drinks. She beams at Bill, but catches Mike’s eyes briefly, as if to ask – is everything ok? Is he ok? To which he replies, hopefully, yes, I think it is. I think he is, and he will be. _

Bill looks at him, smile turning shrewder, over his glass. “So do y-you like the endings?”

Mike hedges. Except on occasion, like the first story he ever let Mike read, Bill has always had a problem with endings. If he was Stan, he might say this possibly belies his own personal inability to deal with endings in his own life properly – him and Bev having problems in senior year comes to mind – but he isn’t, so he won’t speak to that.

“I mean…I never really want your stories to end, so –“ he tries, and Bill cracks up and then he does.

“You think they’re bad too?” Bill says, wiping his eyes, still sort of laughing.

Mike shrugs looking for the right words. “I just – you’re so good at the set-up, and you write such heartfelt, interesting characters but sometimes it just feels like you…run out of steam, or get – tired, or something,” he ends up saying.

Bill shakes his head, still grinning, a little more rueful now. “I get that a lot, actually. Audra said it in our last argument. I mean, not dramatically, it just came up…” he says, taking a sip of his drink. Mike doesn’t miss the slight bitterness in his expression, talking about her.

He’s never met Audra – from what Bill told him tonight, he’s been married for the past six years to her, an actress, and that he met her at a party probably hosted by someone famous that Mike cannot remember the name of. He didn’t speak about her a lot, but when he did he said she was talented and funny and passionate – but with a hint of that same bitterness to it. It’s not like Eddie’s point-blank near refusal to discuss his wife at all, other than the facts – Bill clearly still loves her, but it definitely seems complicated. He can’t imagine being married to a celebrity makes things easy either.

“How’d she…take you leaving to come down here? I mean, didn't you say she was in _The Attic Room _adaptation you're in the middle of?” Mike asks carefully.

Bill looks at him strangely for a moment, then nods. “I mean, she was…fine. Well, we were kind of in the m-middle of a thing, and it didn’t r-really get r-resolved. But the m-movie doesn’t need me f-for a couple of days. And I can w-work from here.”

Mike nods. _Fine _doesn’t sound like the word for it, but how would he know?

“And you guys are…ok? Happy?” he asks, knowing he’s edging into dangerous territory, alcohol making him a little too bold.

Bill laughs, a surprised, bitten-off sound. “Is anyone?” he says, almost jokingly but there’s an exhausted edge seeping into it. “No, I – it’s hard to explain.” He sighs. “It’s not like w-we’re not – crazy about each other in some w-ways, but it’s just – w-we drive each other crazy in other w-ways, too. I’m n-not sure we…get each other. Not like…” he says, trailing off, staring awkwardly at his empty glass.

Mike knows what he means without him even saying it. This thing between them all – this awful thing that brought them together, this horrible tragedy, this beautiful connection that blossomed despite all of that like greenery coming back after a fire– it’s a blessing and a curse, and it always has been. How are they supposed to move on, bring new people into their lives who don’t understand them, when – somewhere in the world, once upon a time – there was a group of people who already did without all of the painful explaining of yourself? It’s probably why most of his scant attempts at relationships haven’t lasted so long – that and the difficulty of trying to find someone you can date in the small town you’ve always lived in, especially someone that doesn’t work with you.

He thinks for a moment, then speaks up. “Look, you can tell me to shut up because it’s obvious, or I’m out of line, if you want but – you know it’s not fair to judge her against Bev, right? Or any of us, really.”

Bill looks at him, and for a moment Mike thinks he’s actually angry, but then he just looks away and sighs deeply. “F-fuck, I’m s-so aware of it, t-though.” He looks at Mike. “I don’t know h-how to…not.”

Mike nods. “Does she…know? About Georgie? About…_him_?” he asks, very quietly. It’s been twenty-seven years and he still doesn’t like saying the name if he can help it. It’s like an ancient curse, like Bloody Mary, like that movie _Candyman _that Richie dragged him to and he hated (well, it was more complicated than just hated – how do you make peace with being such a rarity where you live, and not always a welcome one, and then you watch one of those awful slasher movies, but instead of seeing no one like you as usual, you look like the killer? Are you happy to see yourself or terrified that people think you’re the monster?)

Bill’s eyes get teary again, and Mike wishes it didn’t make him want to comfort him quite so much. He’d been through so much – they’d all been through so much. He used to see it in them, and just wanted to hug it out of them, take all their secret pains for them.

He swallows. “H-how –“ he begins, but his voice breaks. “H-how can I?” he gets out, and then breaks off. “I d-don’t k-know even –“ he starts, and begins to cry, and Mike hopes that Bill still wants to be hugged by him.

He does. They stay like that for a moment. Bill looks strangely abashed and pink when they break apart.

“F-fucking hell, I’m drunk,” he says, laughing a little awkwardly. “I should p-probably crash.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, I’ll show you the spare room. I’m assuming Richie’s passed out on my couch at this point. I definitely remember one Christmas break where he did so for like a week, back in college,” Mike says, talking too much. Bill laughs, a little oddly.

Bill turns to leave the study, but looks back at Mike. “Thanks. I’ve missed your – y-your hugs, Mike,” he says, with a tired little smile.

“Missed you too,” Mike says, smiling, head buzzing in a tired kind of way.

***

Stan wakes up on the couch, feeling the onset of the hangover approaching. He can’t have been out too long because the warm living room light is still on, although Richie’s passed out at the other end of the couch.

He sits up too fast and swears a little, and looks around to see Mike going to turn the light off, and almost jumps a foot.

“Jesus fuck, man,” he says, trying to get his heart rate back to normal.

Mike looks guilty. “Oh sorry, I was trying not to wake you up.”

He shakes his head, smiling a little shamefacedly, breathing in and out in measured breaths. “No, it’s fine I was just a bit, y’know, disoriented.”

He gets up, carefully avoiding bumping Richie. He doesn’t know why – when they were young he could have slept through an earthquake in the middle of a parade, and it doesn’t seem like much has changed there.

“Good catch up?” Mike asks, looking over at Richie fondly.

Stan nods, grinning. “Yeah. Can’t believe he’s here and asleep on your couch.”

Mike returns the grin. “Honestly, still can’t believe _you’re _here and were asleep on my couch.”

Stan smiles slowly, still drunk enough to make Mike’s face a little in and out of focus. His head is starting to really fucking hurt though.

“God,” he says, taking off his glasses and rubbing his temple.

Mike looks worried. “Are you ok?”

He shakes his hands. “Mm, yeah. Could do with some aspirin though, I can feel this hangover chasing me down.”

Mike thinks for a second, and then says. “I know where I’ve got some. I’m pretty sure it’s in my ensuite though,” he says, and Stan should probably just stay in the living room, but he follows Mike instead, still wanting to talk to him.

Mike doesn’t seem to mind.

“So, where’s Bill?” he asks. “I’m glad he came too,” he says slowly, smiling, looking at the things on Mike’s walls. So many books, and old maps, and framed historical posters on the walls. “I like your house. It’s very…I don’t know, you.”

Mike chuckles, softly. “Thanks, I think? Bill crashed in the spare bedroom.” He looks at Stan, “Which I’m sorry to say, is probably where you’re going to have to sleep tonight.”

Stan grins wider. “Well unless he’s started snoring, I think I can handle it.”

“I have no idea if he has, but I guess that’s your cross to bear,” Mike says, and Stan shakes his head, grinning.

“Asshole. What book were you guys so jazzed about earlier?” he asks Mike.

Mike lights up. “This book about the Romanov family, it’s brilliant. Although I think Bill fell asleep before I remembered to give it to him.”

Mike opens the door to his room and leaves it open, going in and turning on a standing lamp, so Stan continues into the room with him. The bedroom is relatively small, or maybe it just looks that way because there are books in here too, and a neat double bed and a stack of papers on the bedside table. A door off to the side must contain the ensuite.

Mike gives it all a cursory look, slightly awkward, then looks back at Stan and seems to remember why he came in. “Aspirin,” he says, and goes to open the side door. He leaves it open and the warm, too-bright light of the bathroom spills into the dimness of the bedroom.

“You have _so many books_, man, I love it,” he calls, sitting down on the edge of the bed. It’s softer than he expected, feels good. Maybe Mike’s got that kind of quality mattress Stan was always telling himself was too expensive. “Do you have Bill’s?”

“Uh, of course,” Mike says, with a laugh, voice muffled because he’s facing the sink in the bathroom. “He saw them in the study, too. Hope it didn’t come off too creepy.”

“Nonsense!” Stan says, with a slow laugh. “I’m sure he was thrilled. I mean, I have them all too. Patty’s obsessed with them…” he trails off. He thinks about her curled up on their couch reading _The Attic Room, _bringing her cups of tea, _“sorry I can’t talk to you until I finish this, Adelaide’s being chased –“_ and closes his eyes. He lies back, just for a moment, and opens his eyes.

Mike is giving him a strange, sad look but he looks away almost immediately when he realises Stan is awake. He’s holding the aspirin bottle and a glass of water. He smiles reassuringly, but it’s still there behind his eyes. “I opened the bottle for you. I wasn’t sure if you could do it right now,” he says, with a hint of humour.

This works, because he finds himself smiling. “I can’t believe you could. You’ve had as much as I’ve had.”

Mike chuckles, handing him the bottle and placing the water on the nightstand. “Well, I’m taller.”

“Shut up,” Stan chuckles too, sitting up, swiping clumsily at him. He takes the pill, holds it on his tongue, washes it down with the water. He thinks about his other pills, about watching them disappear down the toilet a week – two weeks? – before. Before it happened. Bad idea. They’re in his bathroom cabinet now. His parents’ old bathroom. He felt weird moving into their room, but his old room was too small, and it was too weird and depressing to move back into his childhood bedroom as an adult.

Before he knows it, he’s horizontal again. This mattress _is _really good. Maybe he will have to ask Mike about it.

“I guess you’re kind of rooted to the spot there, huh?” Mike says softly, and he’s smiling.

He shakes his head. “I’ll get up… just give me a moment. Just sit – sit with me for a second. I don’t want to have to keep looking up at you, my eyelids are too heavy.”

“Oh, ok, uh – “ Mike says, that edge of awkwardness creeping back into his voice. Stan shakes his head against the coverlet, patting the space next to him drunkenly. “Come on now,” he says, looking up at the ceiling.

He feels Mike sit down on the edge of the bed, somewhere to his left, and then feels the familiar sag of a mattress supporting two adults.

“Thankyou,” he says. “I’ll get up in a moment, just waiting till the ceiling stops spinning.”

Mike chuckles, and Stan can almost feel it. Or maybe he’s just drunkenly imagining it. “I haven’t been drunk like this in a while.” 

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I was in college the last time I did this,” Stan replies, grinning up at the ceiling.

Mike laughs. “I can’t say that long for me. You know how they say cops can drink? Teachers are like that but we also have to spend a lot of time trying to get teens interested in things they don’t care about, so. Lot of incentive to.”

Stan chuckles again. “I had no idea. Amazing.”

Mike laughs, too.

Stan turns his head to look at him. He remembers Mike in his twenties, and vaguely in his thirties, and he looks sort of the same but he’s got wrinkles at his eyes. When did it shift? When did they actually start aging?

He turns back to watch the ceiling, and then has to close his eyes because it’s still moving. “Thanks for bringing everyone back, Mikey,” he says softly. “I can’t believe you got them all to come…I had a great night. I haven’t felt this good in…” he trails off.

His hand is next to Mike’s. Softly, so softly, like he might be drunkenly imagining this too, he feels someone touching their fingertips to his.

He presses back, warm at that point of connection, imagining it flowing up into his stomach, his heart, his brain. He’s so tired, and it’s so comfortable. Just a minute more, then he’ll get up.

*

Stan wakes up by himself, disoriented, not wearing his glasses. His mouth feels like cotton.

He sits up too fast, and swears. His head hurts, but he vaguely remembers taking aspirin last night, so that’s probably why his head doesn’t completely feel like someone’s dropped a heavy iron safe on it.

He realises he’s still wearing his clothes from last night, and that he slept on top of the covers. Someone’s put a soft blanket on him. _Mike. _This is Mike’s room. He fell asleep on Mike’s bed, he realises with some shame. He shouldn’t have lain down, he shouldn’t have even sat down.

Mike’s put out a new glass of water and left the aspirin on the bedside table. He’s not here, but he’s left a note on a scrap of paper, next to Stan’s glasses. Stan puts them on to read it.

_Gone out for coffee, assuming the others haven’t left when you get up, tell them I’m bringing them back drinks too. Mike :) P.S. stop feeling guilty I slept here too, I just get up early. _

Stan stares at the note for a moment, smiling stupidly, then remembers that Bill and Richie are here somewhere, and wonders what time it is. He wonders if his phone is still in his pocket – it is, thankfully. It says it’s 8:13am, so based on long ago precedent, the both of them are almost certainly not awake. 

As if on cue, his phone rings.

_Patty._

He hesitates for a moment, then picks it up.

“Stan? I didn’t wake you up did I?” she says, friendly but awkward. It’s like this every time they talk now, especially the last few weeks.

“No, no I’m up,” he replies, in the same way, friendly enough so she won’t think he’s being distant.

“Good,” she says, genuinely. “It’s afternoon here, but I didn’t want to bother you too early,” she says, and pauses, and he can imagine her face right now. Concerned, gentle. “How are you? How’s the house going? Did you get to see everyone yet?” she says, and laughs that little awkward laugh. He can picture the way her face changes when she does it, the crinkle of her eyes. “I’m sorry, too many questions, sorry.”

He scrunches up his eyes, and opens them, and then summons his friendly voice. “No, no, thanks,” he says, smiling despite himself. “I’m good. Well, I’m feeling better. I think it’s the air here. That sounds dumb,” he says, and laughs.

“No, no, sounds good!” she says, laughing a little.

“I did get to see everyone last night. It was – It was so good. I don’t know why we didn’t do something like this…years ago,” he adds, remembering it happily. 

“I’m really glad,” Patty says, sounding genuinely pleased. “I knew it’d be good for you to be back, with them,” she says, and pauses. A breath transmitted across an ocean of space between them. “Kind of wish I’d met more of them.”

He pauses. “I – me too,” he says, too heavily but he can’t help it.

She breathes again. “Tell that – Mike – thanks from me. He’s been the one helping you, right?”

“Yeah, he – is,” he says.

“He’s a good friend. I always liked him, when we got to see him,” she says, quietly.

He pauses, takes a breath. “Thanks, I will. L –“ he says, catches himself almost ending the call the way they always used to. “Look out for yourself. I hear it’s cold over there.”

She takes another one in return. “Yeah, you too. Rug up. Don’t get sick,” she says, and she’s starting to sound like she has a cold. “I’m really sorry, I have to go, but you know you can call if you need? I don’t care about the time difference. I just – I just like to know how you’re doing.”

He closes his eyes and opens them again. “I know, and thanks. Same to you, really, I’m sure what you’re doing is way more interesting.”

There’s a pause, where they used to put their love yous, their honeys, all those things you don’t think about until you do. “It really isn’t,” she says instead. “Look after yourself. Say hi to Mike from me.”

“Will do. You look after yourself, too, Pat.” He can’t say it – neither of them can just casually throw it around anymore, it’s not fair – but he does, so much.

“I will. Bye, hon,” she says, slipping up.

He doesn’t call her on it. “Bye, Pat.”

They hang up, and he sighs, lying back and looking at the ceiling, a blurry sense memory of something buzzing in his fingertips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title of the chapter and the song Bill and Richie are drunk-singing is this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n_Cf6pgwm0I (also on the playlist)


	3. I Get By (With A Little Help From My Friends)

Ben wakes early, despite how late he got to bed the night before. It’s something he realised once he really started doing early starts, interning for his first architecture firm – it’s hard to reset your body clock to waking up later, even when you really want to.

He doesn’t have nearly as much of a splitting headache as he’d feared, maybe because he had the foresight yesterday to drink water and take the Panadol he had with him. He still takes another to get on top of it, and gets ready for a jog.

He much prefers to jog around his home in Seattle, or to use the treadmill when he’s pressed for time, which is almost all the time. But when he gets a chance to jog outside, he loves the scenery, the crisp air, the trees on his street.

He laces up his shoes, quietly slips downstairs and walks out the front, leaving his water bottle on the porch to come back to later. He centres himself, and starts off.

Jogging is such a rush of endorphins to him, it’s like a drug. It makes him feel limitless, like there’s nothing that can touch him as long as he keeps moving.

It’s just him and his breathing and his music.

_Come up for air, come up for up air, come up. _

He used to hate running. So much. It was like a torture someone had devised specifically to hurt and humiliate him. He hadn’t felt like he could run from anything then – and yet he had, run for his life. Literally.

Derry’s streets are written with old memories – riding around on bikes with everyone, lazy summer afternoons, kicking leaves in autumn, shivering home in winter.

_All alone and I know I can't stay/But we're walking up and down the streets to stay awake._

Before he knows it, he’s jogging past a familiar series of houses that he can’t quite place until he sees it. The old green-and-white house. Bill’s house.

Not his house anymore. Not even his parents’ anymore.

He hadn’t realised he’d run this far. Seeing the house has winded him, and he leans forward, bracing his hands on his thighs and trying to catch his breath.

He must have been a kid the last time he was this unexpectedly winded.

_He’s trying to draw breath into his lungs but they feel like they’re on fire, like all he’s doing is burning his throat, burning his lungs. He’s vaguely aware that he’s lying down, feeling the grass scratching his back through his shirt. He can barely see, hallucinating burnt out spots on his vision. The sun is too high, too hot, too bright, so he closes his eyes again._

_He also wants the ground to swallow him whole_ _, to be able to be open his eyes and see that everyone’s left him here to go get changed, onto their next class. But no such luck. _

_High school is cruel._

_“You’re weak, Hanscom! You’re not going to keep up in the real world!” _

_He can make out Coach Orlovsky’s harsh tone, distantly, but right now he can’t even concentrate on it. _

_“That’s t-totally unfair, C-coach!” he can distantly hear Bill saying, furiously. _

_“He needs to go to the nurse, you made him pass out with those insane laps!” Stan jumps in, just as angrily_

_“Ben? Ben?” Eddie’s panicked voice is closer to him. “Can you hear me?” he says, moving into the same taking-charge tone he had when he patched up the wound Bowers had made, the first time they met._

_“You kids think you’re special, well I got news for you – I’m not treating you different because you somehow managed not to get murdered in that old house! Just because you got some attention from the paper! You wouldn’t have been welcome back in my house, no sir!” Orlovsky_ _ sneers, and even this is abrasive and loud and somewhere in the part of his brain that is subsisting on what little oxygen he’s getting, he’s so sick and angry about it. _

_“Like anyone would want to spend five seconds in your creep dungeon, you fucking facist!” Richie snaps, and the tone is mocking but without any of his usual warmth, he’s maybe even more white-hot with rage than the rest of them. _

_He hears a chorus of distant oohs and a few laughs. _

_“You’re going to the office, now, Tozier, and you’re going to rot there!” Orlovsky roars at Richie._

_He opens his eyes and sees Eddie’s big scared eyes. “Mm…ok…” he gasps out, and Eddie nods and looks anxiously at Richie. _

_Stan and Bill are standing protectively around him, and he can’t see their faces but what he can see of their bodies is angry, like they’re vibrating with indignation and rage. Richie is next to them, closest to the coach and Ben can see his face a little better. _

_Richie looks almost as angry as the time he’d picked up a baseball bat and swung it at the head of a serial-child-killer who was nearly twice his size_ _. Ben wouldn’t want to be anywhere near the receiving end of it. He stares defiantly back at Coach Orlovsky, who is maybe two feet in front of him. _

_“I’m taking my friend to the nurse, and then I’ll go to the office myself. That wasn’t a request.” Richie says, with steely confidence. _

_“W-we’re coming with you,” Bill says, matter-of-factly. Like he’s just keeping it together, but any longer and he’ll start swearing at the coach too. Eddie and Stan make agreeing noises._

_Richie turns to Ben, ignoring the coach’s furious splutters, and his expression softens, though he doesn’t smile. He offers Ben a hand up, and allows him to put an arm around his shoulder, while Bill takes the other and all of them walk out of class and off the sports field together._

_“Sorry you got in trouble for me,” Ben says, at the nurse’s office, feeling remorseful and humiliated._ _ If only he’d have been able to finish those laps, but it was just so hot he couldn’t keep it up. _

_Richie makes a disgusted noise, and for a moment Ben is worried he’s going to yell at him. But he just shakes his head. “It was - definitely not - fucking - your fault, Ben. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to yell at that psycho for years… It’s worth the detention any day just to see his stupid guppy face flapping around and trying to figure out how to stop us leaving.” _

_He does a cruel and accurate impression, and all the boys laugh. Even Ben, who only coughs a little bit after. _

_“Are you sure you don’t have asthma? Maybe you should get tested?” Eddie starts again, and Richie groans. _

_“I’ll test you in a second,” he threatens half-heartedly, and Eddie replies, “That doesn’t even make sense, idiot, and it’s a legitimate question –“_

_Ben smiles a little, and really hopes he’s not going to cry. He was very close to it back in class, and that would have been so much worse. He’s just happy that these boys would drop what they were doing to help him, even though he knows they would, it doesn’t stop surprising him. _

_“No I don’t think I have asthma, but thanks, Ed. But if the Nurse sends me home early like she said, someone will need to take Mike the Chem homework I was going to bring him.” _

_“What a day for him to be sick, huh? I reckon Orlovsky might not have tried it if he was around. I think he’s scared of him,” Richie crows, grinning viciously. Ben doesn’t know if it’s true but he grins anyway. _

_“I’ll take it, that w-way I’ll just go all the w-way b-back with Bev instead of t-turning off at mine,” Bill says, and Ben feels an unpleasant twinge at the thought of Bill recounting the story of him pathetically fainting and near-blacking out in gym to Bev, no matter how kind he is in the telling. _

Ben looks back at Bill’s house and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and opens them again. Bill really had been such a good friend, and that made the whole situation so much worse.

He turns, puts his music back in again and jogs back the way he came, focusing hard on his music and his breathing. Trying not to remember streets with houses he’d been to a party at, that they’d trick-or-treated at.

_Every time you try/Quarter half a mile/Just like yesterday/I told you I would stay_

He finds his way back to the guest house, and as he reaches the porch he realises someone is pacing the porch, speaking in a quick-frustrated-quiet tone.

“Yes I’m aware of that – No, I – yes, Myra, I _heard you the first time –_ I have to go, I’ll call you later –“ Eddie says, looking wound-up and sickly. He punches the screen with his finger rather forcefully, looks up, and almost physically jumps.

“Oh, Ben, it’s you,” he says, too quickly. It’s almost like he’s been sprung doing something he shouldn’t be doing. He looks at Ben’s sweat-soaked shirt and shorts, and his eyes narrow suspiciously.

“Did you seriously just go for a run?” he says, sounding both confused and irritable. 

Ben shrugs. “I always go for a morning jog.”

Eddie sighs. “Yeah, most mornings I do, too. Not usually when I have a hangover though, Jesus!” he says, almost like he’s offended by the very concept.

Ben smiles. “Yeah I took some painkillers earlier, but honestly nothing clears my mind more than going for a jog. You’re welcome to come tomorrow, if you want.”

Eddie looks mollified by this. “Yeah I mean as long as we stay sober tonight, I’m in.”

Ben goes to sit on the steps, picking up the water bottle he’d left and taking a big swig. “When’d you start, then?”

Eddie looks surprised by the question. “I, uh…maybe ten years ago? Just after I met Myra, I guess,” he says, and his expression turns brooding.

From the look of that call, it doesn’t sound good. But then again, what would he know about healthy relationships? With no wife or anyone, really, to speak of?

Ben just nods. “So you decided to get in shape for her?”

Eddie doesn’t smile. “I guess,” he says, looking down. “Also, I read this article about how your bones are weakening from the age of thirty onwards and exercise like jogging is good for cardiovascular health, and minimising your risk of developing osteoporosis –“ he says, and he’s off in an easier track, and they’re discussing exercise and marathons and Ben’s just decided not to bring up Myra again because clearly it’s a sore spot for him, when Eddie pauses in their conversation and looks out at the tree in front of the guest house. “You know, I think you just have to have an outlet. Some time that isn’t just work or – I mean, when I’m not working, I’m at home with Myra and sometimes you just need like, an hour where it’s just you and seeing how far you can get before you go back,” he says, with a strange look on his face.

Ben doesn’t know what to say to this, that won’t betray what he thinks. He might not have any relationships currently, he might not have always had the healthiest relationships before, but even he knows there’s no way that this marriage is a happy one. Which makes him incredibly sad for Eddie, and too afraid to say anything about it. He hasn’t even seen him since the nineties, what is he gonna do, start giving him marriage advice?

“Yeah, uh, of all people, I definitely know how important that time is. Getting a good work-life mental health balance,” he starts, trying to find something easy to agree with. “Although admittedly, mine tends to skew in favour of work stuff,” he says, smiling ruefully.

Eddie smiles a little. “Well, I’d kind of expect it to. You said you owned the company right?” he says, still a bit incredulous.

Ben nods, caught between his well-honed instinct to downplay it and his genuine pride in it. “I mean, it’s only seven years old. Or it will be, in a month. But yeah, it took a lot of work in the industry to get there, and then get it up and running, so it was kind of all I thought about for a while.”

Eddie shakes his head. “Sounds kind of exciting though, even if it was a lot of work…Man, Dark Horse Ben strikes again. Slow and steady, out here secretly building a business empire while we’re all just working. It’s just like when you knocked me off the top spot in AP Algebra in eleventh grade all over again.”

Ben laughs, surprised. “You’re still mad about that? It’s been twenty-three years!”

“I’m just saying, you’re cunning,” Eddie says, but he laughs too. 

***

Eddie’s morning is getting better. It had started pretty fucking badly, to be fair, so there wasn’t a lot of places for it to go. 

He’d woken up with a splitting hangover – which he’d expected, because he didn’t drink like that in his normal life. In fact, he was struggling to remember the last time he had – crazily, risk analysts aren’t exactly hard partiers. College maybe? Couldn’t be. But when else would he have let loose around anyone else?

So that had been horrible, but of course he’d brought a range of painkillers, because he liked to be prepared for any eventuality and guess who’s laughing now _Richie, _he probably had a bad one and hadn’t brought anything.

He hadn’t been drunk around Richie in so long, he’d forgotten what it was like, being goaded into doing stupid things. _Arm-wrestling._ God. That post-drunk shame settled in, whispering at him that he’d been out of control, too much. 

And as if that hadn’t been hard enough, he’d been almost out the door to go into town and get some coffee when his phone had rung. _Myra. _Of course it had been her. Worse, he’d dodged a bunch of calls from her last night, so leaving it any longer would only make it worse when he eventually did talk to her again.

Myra had been stressed, anxious, saying something about Maine weather and to look out for a storm front and maybe he should just come back early. He’d had to pretend he had to go just because he couldn’t deal with trying to explain any more why he couldn’t just leave right now.

He and Ben have been having a good conversation, when Bev comes downstairs, finding them outside. Ben lights up, and Eddie wonders for a brief second what it would be like to have someone look like that when he enters a room. 

“I suspect the coffee here, if it exists, is terrible,” she says, with a wry laugh. “Not that town’s might be any better, but do you guys wanna chance it with me?”

“Give me ten minutes to shower, and I’m in,” Ben says, with a self-conscious smile, getting up. Eddie wonders what he has to be self-conscious about.

Bev nods, grinning, and sitting down in his vacated spot. “Alright, hurry up then, I need a monster hit of caffeine quick.”

He smiles at her, and Eddie thinks it’s impossible that he still feels the same way, but it also seems impossible to him that she can’t see it.

“Did he seriously go for a jog this morning?” she asks Eddie disbelievingly, as soon as he’s run off, settling into his vacated seat on the step.

Eddie shakes his head. “I know, apparently he’s a cyborg now.”

She laughs. “Madness.”

He grins.

“So, how are you doing this morning, then?” Bev asks.

Eddie frowns. “Well, if it weren’t for heavy-duty Panadol, I would be lying on the floor, and my wife is worried I’m going to die in a storm here maybe? But other than that, fine.”

Bev raises an eyebrow. “Does she know you’ve faced worse than a bit of thunder and lightning?”

Eddie looks away. “Not exactly. It would just freak her out. She gets very anxious.”

Bev nods. “Yeah, I get that,” she says.

A beat passes. “Does yours know?” he asks, looking at her.

This time she looks away, focusing on the cars out front. “I mean – Tom and I have talked about a lot in our pasts, but…I just. Well, same as you. I don’t want to worry him. It was so long ago.”

He recognises that deflection with a sinking feeling. She doesn’t refer to Tom much, barely talked about him last night.

“Yeah…long time ago,” he agrees.

_He’s thirteen, and basically under house arrest until the end of time for making his mom come down to the police station, and for going into the old crack house on Neibolt St, and for going into the sewers, and for getting very dirty. And for almost being killed and possibly cannibalised by a serial killer, but honestly, Eddie doesn’t know what she thinks is worse. _

_What little colour he has in his life has leached out, and it’s almost the end of summer, and he hasn’t seen his friends in weeks. His life is just being at home all day, unless he’s accompanying Mom to the shops because she won’t let him out of her sight and she won’t let him go by himself anymore. And more pills. “For the terrible ordeal you’ve been through, Eddie-bear,” she says, too nicely, and they make him feel tired and colourless, like you could see through him. A little see-through boy, made of glass._

_He just lies back on his bed, listening to the tape Richie made for him. Richie had a surprisingly mature taste in music, for a kid with such an immature sense of humour. They had to sneak him this cassette player, Bill and Richie, before the summer started, because his mom didn’t approve of him listening to rock music – which she often referred to as ‘devil music’._

_He’s played this one song over and over, so much that he’s probably about to wear out the tape. _

_“Oh we can beat them forever and ever/then we can be heroes, just for one day” David Bowie sings, and it opens up some part of him that hurts over what they went through and desperately misses them all. _

_It had felt like that, heroes but just for one day. Then back to normal, but worse. _

_Someone is knocking on his window. He sits up, realising he’s fallen asleep and the tape is no longer playing. He stops it, pulling his headphones off. _

_He goes over to the window, and he sees a flash of red hair, and then he realises he’s looking at Bev through the glass. _

_She’s smiling, mischievously. He has no idea why._

_“What are you doing here?” he whispers. “If my mom sees you here –“ _

_Bev shakes her head, still smiling. “We’re getting you out of house arrest. Richie and I have a plan,_ _ if you’ll agree to it.” _

_He glances back at his closed bedroom door, beyond which his mother is either lying on the couch watching TV, or sitting at the little plastic-topped table in the kitchen cutting coupons. _

_He looks back at her, uneasy but also barely daring to hope. “Ok…what have you got.” _

_She smiles at him, excited, and he feels suddenly incredibly grateful for her presence. Not in love with her (he knows that much to be true), not staring longingly after her like Ben, but just grateful she’s here and she cares about him. _

***

They end up walking over to the Chinese restaurant first, when they remember Ben left his car there. Eddie is surprised it hasn’t been towed, they hadn’t even thought about that in their drunken state last night, although between drunk driving and getting your car towed, he knows which he would prefer any day.

Driving around, they find a newish-looking café near the main part of the shops, and even Eddie has to admit that it’s cleaner and more modern than he’d expected. But maybe his memories embellish everything in town as older and less hygienic than it actually was.

They find a table out of the sun, inside, and drink coffees that actually aren’t too bad. The barista looks like she’s gonna cry when he asks if they have almond milk, so he just gets soy instead.

“How do you think Stan’s doing?” Eddie says, a while into a fairly easy conversation they’d been having about the best coffee spots in their cities, Eddie getting into a playful squabble with Bev about the best cafes in NYC and lamenting how often their favourites seemed to go under and be replaced.

Bev and Ben look at him, and he supposes the question is jarring but it’s been on his mind for the last two days. Actually, for the last few days, ever since Mike called him, some kind of swirling anxiety that he doesn’t know what he should be doing in this situation, but he should be doing something. _Oh well_, he thinks, _add it to the ever-growing list. _

“He seemed…I don’t know, happier, last night?” Ben tries. The worry has returned to his eyes too. “But I guess, I haven’t really been around people who’ve tried to…” he trails off and looks at his coffee.

“No, I think last night was good,” Bev agrees. She looks at Ben, and then looks back at Eddie. “But, you know, I think it’s ok to be worried, Ed. I think we’re all worried. He smiled a lot, but he did look like he’d been through the wringer,” she says. “I think we all remember what that looks like.”

They share a knowing look. Ben nods. Eddie frowns at the memory. He doesn’t really think about it, when he’s at home. It’s harder not to when he’s back here.

She gives them an empathetic smile. “But he’s…still here , you know? So we just have to be here for him for awhile. That’s all we can do.”

Eddie sees the way Ben looks at her as she says this. He wonders if Ben’s even aware of how much affection for her leaks out of him, like a tap that’s stuck and can’t be turned off . It’s almost irritating, it’s so public, it’s so obvious, why isn’t he afraid everyone will see he still has that much affection for her? But he can’t hate it. It’s just who he is.

“As long as it takes,” Ben says, determinedly.

Bev nods. “Definitely.”

Eddie nods, even though it’s not like he can be here forever, even if he wanted to be. It’s just lucky he’s such an asset to the company he works for, and almost never takes consecutive vacation days – they’d pretty much had to agree, when he’d explained the gravity of the situation.

“That’s all we can do,” Eddie repeats. He looks at Bev, grateful for her presence in an oddly familiar way that takes him a moment to place. Well, it’s not a specific memory, but he’d forgotten the exact feeling of it, the comfort. “Thanks, Bev.”

She reaches out, and squeezes his hand with hers, just briefly. And he’d forgotten she used to do that, or how comforting that was. Being back is like opening up a whole room he’d forgotten was locked, a whole back-catalogue of memories he can’t remember forgetting, wondering how he’d lived like these weren’t a vital part of him.

“Anytime,” she says, smiling.

They find their way back to a lighter topic of conversation soon enough, discussing last night, which turns into trying to piece together their blurrier memories with the help of various blurry photos and badly-angled videos on their phones.

“Hey, ok, but I’m sure I have a better picture of it, that will prove –“

Eddie is defending an appearance he’s made in the back of one of Bev’s photos, to Ben’s laughter and Bev’s mock-indignation, by scrolling through his own photos when he comes across a photo of him and Richie that he’d forgotten they’d taken. The lower lighting of the room they were in and the fish-tank cast weird shadows and lighting on their faces, and they look ridiculous and drunk – but they’re smiling so easily, and they look so comfortable that Eddie almost doesn’t recognise himself. He looks so _happy_. He just stares at it.

Seeing Richie last night was such a surreal experience that if he didn’t have these pictures, he almost wouldn’t believe it had happened. There was a time where his presence was just a matter of fact, immutable, like certain laws of physics. And then there were times where he wished that weren’t the case, and times he was deeply grateful for this annoying kid with his stupid voices and his terrible jokes and his need to take things too far. And then suddenly, it wasn’t like that.

He’d missed all of them, in varying ways. It would hit at random times, studying flashcards and remembering how Ben was great at making them and how he was great to study with because he got it, how to collaborate and how to work in companionable silence, and didn’t get bored and grab your ear or your nose and make it _impossible _to do any work. Walking behind a laughing, red-haired girl on the way into the subway, but it wasn’t Bev. Seeing his roommate’s cartoons and being reminded of Bill drawing in his Math notebook. Someone reading a book on the train that he and Stan had been obsessed with. Walking past a theatre showing Mike’s favourite movie.

And it wasn’t like he didn’t talk to them, and he even saw them on rare occasions when they were in the same place at the same time, and that was good. Not enough, but good. But Richie had been such a loud presence in his life. It had felt like his ears were always ringing when he started freshman year, waiting for Richie to yell something obnoxious or throw something at him. And then he’d stopped seeing Richie at all, and he’d forgotten what it felt like – infuriating and loud and embarrassing and funny and exciting all at the same time.

He looks at Richie in the photo. Older now, obviously, but so very much the way he remembered him. Annoying as hell. 

He smiles a little, and almost drops his phone when it vibrates with a series of texts. From Richie. Of course they fucking are.

_are you as hgunover as I am eds?_

_pronb took your aspirin like a goodf boy. _

_do your still have a fanny paclk? _

_fuck anfyway stan says yr welcome foe lunch 😊_

He shakes his head.

**Congratulations, that was almost completely illegible. **He pauses, then adds, **Also, for the millionth time, don’t call me Eds.**

“Eddie?” He hears, and almost drops his phone again. He looks up, and Bev looks curious but doesn’t say anything. “We’re doing lunch at Stan’s, alright? Just got off the phone with him.”

He nods. “Uh yeah, sounds good.”

Ben looks curious too, but neither of them follow up.

“Ben and I were thinking of picking up some other stuff for lunch, do you wanna come? Otherwise, you’re welcome to meet them there,” she continues, casually.

He glances at Ben, who looks a little too casual, and decides to give him some time without a third wheel. “Uh, I’ll just head to Stan’s. You can manage the shopping with Hercules here,” he says, surprising himself and smiling. Ben’s cheeks go pink.

Beverly smiles back, a little too mischievously. “Ok, well, we’ll see you there then. Play nice.”

He’s about to retort when he gets another series of texts.

_that’s the spaghetti man I rmemeber_

_also yr coming to stan’s now i don’t make the rules_

_see you son_

_soon_

He smiles despite himself. Idiot.

***

Richie stares at his phone blearily, grinning.

Even though he feels like the inside of his skull is hosting a tiny fire ant rave, and his skin feels overstretched and sensitive, and he fell asleep on this couch that he’s hoping Mike has replaced since the last time – although that was definitely a different place, now he thinks about it - even though he feels like garbage, he’s got the feeling that today’s going to be an actual good one.

Which is rarely how he feels waking up like this back home. Which is often. But hey, small fucking miracles, huh?

“What are you grinning at?” Bill says grumpily, sitting slumped next to him on a stool at Mike’s wooden kitchen counter. He watches the seltzer fizz in the glass in front of him with a dour expression.

“Just the fact that you got through that whole sentence without any trouble. I’m just so proud of my boy!” Richie says, and smirks, so Bill attempts to grab the phone off him, and they promptly engage in a tussle for it for the next minute.

“_Children_,” Stan says long-sufferingly, turning away from the frying pan to give them the look Richie used to think of as the _Stan Special, _combining disappointment, irritation and an understanding of the very struggle it is to be friends with them sometimes. God if he hasn’t missed its magnificence.

“I know this is hard, but could you maybe keep your hands to yourselves until I’ve finished this? You’re not making anyone’s headaches better,” he says, and turns back to the stove.

“Richie –“ Bill protests feebly.

Stan holds up a hand without saying anything. “If you end that sentence with _started it_, I swear to God,” he says. 

“Bill, you shouldn’t antagonise Mother, you know how her nerves are, especially when she’s had a glass of wine the night before,” Richie says, putting on a voice like a character in a Tennessee Williams play. This gets Bill to laugh. Stan flips them off without turning back around, and Richie laughs with Bill.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t laugh at the person who’s crisping your bacon,” Stan says, calmly.

Bill and Richie gasp. “You wouldn’t, you monster!” Richie protests.

Stan turns around, steely eyed. “Watch me, Tozier.”

“S-some people just want to watch the bacon burn,” Bill adds suddenly, and they both look at him for a moment, disbelieving. Then Stan cracks and suddenly they’re all laughing, and it’s such a stupid joke but it’s one of those things where in the moment it might be the funniest thing you’ve ever heard.

Richie shakes his head, taking his glasses off to wipe his eyes. “Jesus, is it that painful when I tell bad jokes?”

“Worse,” Stan says, at the same time as Bill says, “M-much worse,” and this sets them off again.

“Well, I hope you like crispy bacon, kids,” Stan says, wiping his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

“You’re making bacon without me? In my own kitchen?” Mike says, mock-indignantly, walking in from the hall carrying a quad of coffee cups in a holder. “And having jokes? After I have gone outside to bring you caffeine? So disrespectful.”

“Actually, the bacon’s just for them. They’re hungover monsters and couldn’t wait,” Stan says, with a wry smile. “I was waiting till you got back to make yours and mine.”

Mike grins at him. “Well, at least someone cares. _Unlike some people,_” he says, turning around. 

Mike puts on a show of being disappointed, glaring at them, but Richie can tell he’s too pleased to really commit. “Well, what do you have to say for yourselves?”

“W-we are monsters, but also, w-we were dying,” Bill admits. “I’m too old to be d-drinking this much.”

“Dying!” Richie adds. “And we bullied our dear Stanley into it.”

“I’ll say,” Stan retorts, but he’s still grinning.

“Although, even though we look, and feel like stadium garbage on a hot day,” Richie begins and Bill pokes him, indignant. “_You_ look simply radiant this morning, Michael,” he says, slipping into another character voice. He can’t help himself. He bats his eyelids a few times to sell it.

Mike works and fails to not laugh. He hands Richie his drink. “Ok, ok, you can stop now. I guess flattery will get you everywhere,” he says, shaking his head.

“In my town? Yep,” Richie says, taking a sip and smiling deeply. “In all seriousness, maybe it’s just the caffeine being absorbed into my system but there’s a sort of halo around you right now, makes it hard for me to look at you –“ he babbles until Mike chucks him on the shoulder as he goes to hand Bill his.

Bill takes a sip, and closes his eyes in bliss for a moment. “Thank you, and also I m-might love you?”

Mike shakes his head, but he laughs and then everyone does.

“Well, it’s very crispy, but that’s at least fifty percent your fault, so there you go,” Stan says, placing the plates in front of them.

“Obviously, we love you too, Staniel,” Richie says. “Goes without saying,”

Stan rolls his eyes, but Richie can tell he’s fighting a smile as he turns away.

“So where did that voice come from, Mikey?” he asks, intrigued.

Mike grins. “That’s my disappointed teacher voice. You couldn’t handle it at full power, though.”

“I shudder to think. The full Mike disappointment.” Richie does an exaggerated shiver and laughs, and takes a sip of his coffee.

***

Ben shouldn’t be happy that Eddie had decided to go and see the others, but he is. And he was actually enjoying talking to Eddie, it was nice having him around again in all his slightly manic, neurotic glory. But because he apparently hasn’t matured as much as he thought, the thought of getting to hang out with his high-school crush one-on-one is still exciting to him.

He’s almost annoyed about it, this town making him feel like he’s a kid again. It’s a strange thing to remember again, how powerless it felt, how lonely it was to come here in the beginning.

Dad had said it wouldn’t be forever, maybe two years, when he’d got that new job. Mom had said it was really good for them, it was going to mean that they would get to move into a bigger house, that he’d make friends. He didn’t even really know at the time if he was going to miss Indiana – his hometown was only slightly bigger than Derry, and he’d barely had friends there anyway. But it was different when he moved. Suddenly he wasn’t like any other kid, like he had been at home. He was strangely visible and invisible – not cool enough to be talked to, but uncool, unattractive enough to be like fresh chum in the water. He stuck out, no matter how much he wished he didn’t.

He started spending a lot of time in the library – both because it was quiet and adults rarely bothered him, and the books were really interesting, and because it was the one place he was sure his tormentors would never set foot. But it was lonely, too. Seeing other kids – kids with grown-in friendships, the kind he’d barely had back in Indiana, and certainly not here – through the windows, playing together, laughing, pissing each other off; being in each other’s lives; it was lonely. 

The only time him sticking out ever worked, ever led to anything better was that weird, terrifying, mythical summer, when she’d noticed him. And then they’d noticed him. And then they’d all saved his life, and from then onwards he’d felt both completely blessed and totally screwed.

But he’s not too annoyed to be back, he supposes, sneaking a look at her as she inspects some apples.

Bev hasn’t gotten any less beautiful, even though that wasn’t what made him so completely gone as a kid. Well, maybe the first few times they met, to be honest, it was hard not to be stunned everytime she smiled at him and her eyes lit up. But by the end of the summer, and everything that happened in it, it wasn’t just a crush on a pretty girl. It was something that burned inside him, refusing to let go – not demanding to be seen, not demanding to be loved in return but set off by everything about her, her kindness, her bravery, her steeliness in the face of terror, her sometimes-dark sense of humour, even her bad moods.

“We should get some fruit, right?” Bev asks, and he almost misses it because he’s too lost in his own thoughts. “I mean, I know I could use some fruit. And I think Eddie would object if we just bought trash, you know?”

Ben smiles. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. From what I remember, at least, he was like the human personification of the term _an apple a day keeps the doctor away_.”

Bev laughs, and it’s so warm it fills him up. “I’m sure you eat a lot of fruit, too. Ok, I’m going to buy some apples. And oranges. Maybe I can make juice?”

He has to get a hold on this. He’s not a teenager anymore, and there’s a point where this probably just becomes creepy. It’s not like he hasn’t had real relationships in the last twenty years, it’s not like he didn’t try to move on. It’s being back here that’s bringing it all back.

They’re walking around the shop together, her pointing out things to him and telling him to stop so she can throw things in their cart. He starts to wonder if this is what it would be like, Saturday morning grocery shopping, if they were married. He then remembers with an immediate cold stab of reality that she already is. To someone else.

She shakes her head, leaning in a little, conspiratorially. “This place has really gotten less crap since I worked here, huh?” she says darkly, but with a laugh in her tone.

He looks around. The supermarket is more modern now, it looks more in line with ones he sees in the city, but it’s still pretty rural-seeming. Not that he spends much time in supermarkets, when he can pay someone to do his grocery shopping for him, and on some occasions, cook the whole meal.

“Yeah, I think it’s currently experiencing the modern joys of the early-mid two-thousands,” Ben replies, and she laughs.

His heart is warmed again, and he reminds himself sternly, _married. _She’s _married. _

She looks at him funnily, smiling. “You know, I missed this. Us hanging out. Remember when you used to come by and say hi when I was working? God, it was sometimes the only good thing about my shift.”

_Oh, back when I had an all-encompassing crush on you? Unlike now, twenty-two years later, when I’m totally fine, _he doesn’t say. He can feel his cheeks reddening, which is almost worse. “Oh wow, I’d totally forgotten about that,” he lies, chuckling.

_It’s totally fine to visit her on his way home from Spanish language club, Ben thinks. It’s not like it’s just Bill and him doing it. That might it make it weird, for him to do so. Mike comes to pick her up sometimes, or to bring her something she left at home. Stan passes through after piano lessons, he knows, and Eddie’s mother lets him do the shopping so she doesn’t have to leave the house, and he’s been with Richie when he’s come in solely to annoy Bev and make her laugh until her manager gives him the stink-eye and threatens him with a lifetime ban. _

_He walks in the front doors, having to wait for someone to walk in with because even the automatic doors don’t notice him, at least fifty percent of the time. _

_He sees her bagging groceries for a mom and her two kids, smiling and making polite conversation. The uniforms aren’t flattering to anyone, but she has a way of making anything look like it was made for her. Her bright hair’s grown out in the two years since she cut it off, it’s just above her shoulders now in a longish bob. He’s liked it at every length, though. He shouldn’t think so much about things like this, he reminds himself guiltily. It’s not friend-ish. He could try to lie to himself, but he knows he’s not exactly rhapsodising about Stan or Richie’s curls and remembering every time they’ve had haircuts. _

_He walks forward with purpose. There was definitely something he needed here, definitely. Mom had totally said they’d needed more flour, right? Flour. Flour. Flour. _

_He scours the aisles for a packet of flour, finally finding it. _

_He walks back up to the front of the store, and waits in Bev’s line. If he’s going to be here, he may as well say hi to her. Any one of them would. It’s like when he drops by the theatre, or the diner. It’s the same as that. _

_Bev looks bored in between talking politely to customers, when she’s just scanning through items and bagging them. So far, there’s no one behind him. He kind of hopes it stays that way. _

_“Welcome to Shop-N-Save, how can I help you?” she says, in her customer-serving voice, and then she realises who she’s talking to and her eyes light up. “Ben! Oh my god, it’s so nice to see your face. I’m dying,” she says, dramatically, though she’s still beaming. _

_He can’t help smiling too. “When do you finish work?” _

_She frowns. “Not for another hour. Take me with you?”_

_He chuckles. “What are you saving up for?” he reminds her. _

_She sighs. “A car.” She frowns even more, and he does not have feelings about this. It’s in no way cute. _ _She gives him an accusatory glare. “Whose idea was that?” _

_“Yours!” he laughs, indignant except that he can’t stop smiling. _

_“Oh, right. Like most of my bad ideas,” she says, with a laugh. “So have you got something for me, or this just where the cool kids hang out now?” _

_He’s momentarily confused, and then he remembers he’s holding a bag of flour, which he brings up to the conveyor, feeling his cheeks going hot. Stupid traitorous pale skin. “For my mom,” he says, gesturing to the flour. “And if it was_ _ where the cool kids hang out, I, uh don’t think I’d be here,” he adds, mainly to cover his embarrassment. _

_She laughs. “You’ve got a point. Or me, to be fair.” _

_He grins, but secretly disagrees with her. He doesn’t think there’s a cooler girl in school. Maybe in the whole town. The tri-state area. Maybe in the whole state of Maine. _

“I’ll tell you what though, I don’t miss those nineties server uniforms. They look nicer now. The fifteen-year-olds here don’t know the agony of having to wear maroon-and-green with red hair,” Bev says darkly.

“I don’t know, I think you kind of pulled it off,” Ben replies, with a smile.

She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re making fun of me, Hanscom.”

He laughs, in the same indignant-but-enjoying-it way. He puts a hand to his chest, fake-hurt. “When have I ever?”

She laughs. “I’m sure I can think of a few occasions!”

“Name one!”

“One? When I hadn’t seen _Star Wars _and you guys lost your _damn minds_!” she says, laughing.

He gasps exaggeratedly. “Oh, we’re going there? We referenced it _so much_, you didn’t admit you hadn’t actually seen it til junior year!”

She laughs, putting her hands up defensively. “I didn’t mean to pretend I’d seen it, but then it went on so long I knew you guys would freak out, and then you’d make me watch it!”

“Did you end up liking it or did you end up talking about Han Solo for ages?” he retorts, grinning.

She laughs, indignant now. “See, there! Mocking!”

He can’t help laughing too, even though she swats him lightly. He’s suddenly very aware that her hand is on his arm, and she’s probably left it there too long but he doesn’t want her to take it away.

She looks at him, smiling openly and he can’t look away, still smiling himself. There’s something in her eyes, though, even as she smiles at him now. Something familiar, but older maybe. Something that has to do with how her arms have been covered since he saw her last night. It’s warm today, not so much that it would be crazy to be wearing a cardigan but strange. The way she keeps playing with the sleeves, unwittingly, pulling them down.

“That can’t be Beverly Marsh, can it?” an oddly-familiar, sickeningly sweet voice says. It’s not nice, though, it’s sweetness poured over barbed wire, barely veiled maliciousness . That can only be one of a few people, and he’s pretty sure he can guess without having to look.

Bev removes her hand gracefully, and turns to smile politely at the interloper. “Well, wouldn’t you know it, it can and is. It’s been too long, Gretta,” Bev says civilly, not giving ground.

The years have not been kind to Gretta Keene, in Ben’s opinion. She looks strangely the same, but faded. Her familiar sour, resentful expression is still there, but it’s hardened and cracked into something deeply bitter, broken by over twenty years of life’s disappointments. And unlike she always seemed to think she deserved, judging by her clothes she hasn’t married nearly as well as she wanted to.

Gretta smiles falsely at her. “Of course, I’d know you anywhere with that hair. So…vibrant ,” she says in a voice dripping with the nicest vitriol, letting the pause hang _just _long enough.

Bev doesn’t rise to it. As Ben knows, she’s been through far worse than some mean girl sniping. “Thanks, Gretta,” she says, with amiable boredness. “It’s been so great to catch up, but we’re –“

Gretta holds up a colourfully-taloned hand, smirking and her eyes go to him again, looking him up and down. He supposes he’s used to people doing it, now, but it’s still weird. Especially when it’s one of your high-school bullies, looking at you like you’re a cut of prime rib. 

“Oh no, but you can’t leave without introducing me to your man!” she says, over-friendly, like they’re best friends catching up over cosmos. She looks back at Bev. “You’ve really done well for yourself. Then again, you always did.”

He’s proud of Bev for keeping it together like an adult woman and not smacking her full in the face. She had once, when they were seventeen, and even though generally Ben didn’t like violence as an answer to a problem, he had to admit that Gretta hadn’t tried it for a while after that.

“This isn’t my husband, but I’m not surprised you don’t remember him,” Bev says, with cold humour. She smirks enigmatically, and Ben is surprised to see this ruffles Gretta, whose fake smile slips as she looks at him.

He smiles at her, all politeness. “And here I thought you said I’d die a fat virgin. It is truly _great _to see you, Gretta.”

The look of realisation is almost worth every bit of painful exercise and denied food from the last fifteen years. Her smile completely slips and she can’t seem to help but look stunned.

“Hanscom?” she says, faintly.

He raises his eyebrows at her.

She attempts to regain her composure, looking him up and down again. “Well, you certainly pulled it together,” she says, and he doesn’t like her tone. Too hungry, too bitter, a warning.

“Anyway, like Bev said, we’ve got to be going,” he says.

She keeps looking at them, with that narrow-eyed look she used to get. It never meant anything good. She smiles like a snake, watching them curiously. “I doubt it’s a coincidence, you both being back here, at the same time. The rest of your little…Loser club friends here too?”

She takes their momentary hesitation to answer as an affirmation. “Right, I thought I heard something about that. Of course, Mike’s always been here. Poor, lonely Mike. No family here anymore,” she says, pouting. Ben sees Bev tense up. “Did he call you back? Why now, after all this time? I don’t think I’ve seen you all here at the same time since graduation.” Gretta’s eyes narrow more and her smirk widens, becoming sharper, all the better for hitting her target. “Actually, I did hear from some people that Stan Uris, of all people, moved back to his parents’ old house. And here I heard he was very happy in Georgia, right? So sad, what happened to his parents. I’d say at least they’re in a better place but I’m not sure Jews even do that, right? But why would you all come back for that? The funeral already happened. What could it be that would be so _important_ ?” she says mockingly, drenching the last word in malice, eyes sparkling. 

Ben can almost feel Bev’s barely contained anger coming off her. Gretta might have been out of practice not seeing them for twenty years, but she’d remembered exactly how to press Bev’s buttons. It was never about insulting her. That she could handle easy. It was going after them that used to anger her. 

Ben finds her hand automatically, and Bev holds it. He squeezes it, just lightly, and doesn’t break eye contact with Gretta. “Not that we owe you an explanation, but we try to catch up every few years. It’s hard as adults, when we’re all over the country, so we don’t usually come back to Derry because it’s too far. I mean, that’s just what you do when you have a group of friends that want to see each other. Because we actually like each other. I’m sure you’ve got friends like that, right, Gretta?” he says calmly, without faltering once. Nearly two decades in business has given him an edge with her he didn’t used to have – he knows how to present a cool front to the enemy.

Her smirk drops off.

Bev runs with the lie, without so much as looking at him. “Also, we just don’t like coming back to this shithole. I’ve been back two days, and _already, _I can’t stand the idea of being stuck here. What a sad, bitter life that would be,” she says with casual coldness.

Gretta glares at her, all pretence of social niceties dropped. But before she can get another jab in, Bev turns the trolley around and they walk off in the other direction.

Bev doesn’t say much more til they’re out of the store and safely in the car.

She sighs. “Fuck, it’s like stepping into a time machine,”

He snorts. “You’re telling me. Are you ok?” he asks, looking at her before he starts the car.

She nods. “I’ve never given a shit about what Gretta Keene says,” she says, with a rueful smile. She looks at him, smile fading. “But all of it. The whole place. I meant what I said to her. That’s why I had to – get out, you know?” she says, almost like she wants absolution. Like she did him any wrong by leaving.

He stares at her, and it’s ridiculous how much affection he still feels for her. Can’t help it. Not when she looks at him, not like this. “Of course,” he says softly. “I get it. I did the same thing. I had to. We all had to.”

She looks sadder, and he wishes he knew what to say. “Not everyone did though. And your parents moved away when you were in college. You left less here,” she says, miserably.

He contemplates putting his hand on hers – which is resting on the middle of the front seats glove-compartment – but can’t quite work up the courage, so he finds himself just touching her fingertips with his. She doesn’t pull away. “Bev, if this is about Mike...he was just happy to see you again, you know? I don’t think he’s holding anything against you for leaving.”

She smiles at him, still sad but slightly happier. She interlaces her fingers a little with his, and his heart does a dumb little flip. “Thanks, Ben. I just cut so many – “ she makes like she wants to say something and then cuts herself off, looking frustrated and a little guilty. “I’ll – I’ll explain later. But thanks. You saved me back there, as usual.”

He smiles at her. “Well, I usually had help.”

She smiles more, and pulls her hand back so he can drive them out of the carpark, finally. Ben thinks that he would probably drive one handed if he had to. Not that he’d tell Eddie that. He’d have a heart attack.

***

Eddie gets out of his own car at Stan’s house. The coffee is making him feel better, but it’s also making him more amped. Myra doesn’t like him to drink too much coffee, she says it makes him too excitable. But, he reminds himself frustratedly, he doesn’t need to listen to her. Not when she’s not here. 

It’s weird being back at Stan’s place. The last time he was here had to be senior year, maybe. He always liked it – Stan’s parents weren’t exactly rich, but they had a much nicer house than Eddie’s. He liked being there more than his own house, anyway. But he felt that way about a lot of friends’ houses. 

Stan’s parents were strict, too, but they had always been nice to him. He got the feeling they saw him as the least corrupting influence on their son, which was true, although they might have felt differently if they’d known the swear words Stan had picked up directly from him (he’d picked them up from Richie, but still). His mom was normal, cared about him a lot but not to the point of anxiety, the way a mom should. Eddie thought it was unfair that she had died so suddenly. He wanted to tell Stan this, how sorry he was about it, but every time he tried to last night the words got swallowed up and lost with everything else he was sorry for Stan about and he couldn’t even pull any of it out.

He knocks on the front door, trying not to think about that. Unexpectedly, Richie opens the door.

“Oof, you look how I feel right now,” Richie says, biting into a half-eaten apple smugly.

Eddie resists the urge to smack it out of his mouth, but it’s hard. “And you don’t fucking look like a million bucks either,” he says, and Richie smirks wider, chewing and swallowing slowly. He watches the movement of Richie’s Adam’s apple, and briefly wishes Richie would get half-masticated apple caught in his windpipe, the smug fuck. How can one person make a relatively benign activity so annoying? Richie used to make an art form out of it, and clearly he’s only gotten better – worse? – at it.

“Well that’s kind of my brand, so,” Richie replies, still grinning. “Care to come in, Eds?” he adds, motioning to around him.

Eddie sighs, following him in. “Don’t call me that.” He thinks about it. “I don’t remember the last time I saw you eat any fruit, actually. I seem to remember you declared it your mortal enemy?”

Richie grins wider. “Well, sure, but apparently that’s a worse idea when you’re a forty-year-old man than when you’re fifteen. Also all three of them back here suggested it might get rid of the remains of my hangover. Honestly, between the four of you it’s like it’s like you’re surprised I’ve lived this long on my own.” He’s putting on an exaggerated voice, like the one he uses for stand-up.

“I’m sure we’re all a little shocked,” Eddie replies. “What’s your place like, just takeout containers and empty beer bottles everywhere?”

Richie chuckles. “I’m sure you’d have a panic attack just looking at it,” he says, and looks at Eddie. “I mean, I have a cleaning lady. Well, a woman who cleans. Used to, anyway.”

Eddie’s surprised by this. “Really?”

Richie smirks, and Eddie realises too late he’s in the trap. “Yeah, your mom used to clean up after we –“

Eddie groans. “Fuck you, man. She’s dead, you know?”

Richie is undeterred. “Rest her soul. Gotta keep the memory alive. The sweet, sweet memory.”

“Fuck _off_, Richie,” he answers, but he has to look away because he finds himself smiling despite the frustration. Which is nuts. 

Eddie can’t explain why Richie’s allowed to say this kind of shit, and not get punched. The rest of them would hardly be so crass as to make sex jokes about someone’s dead mother. He’d consider punching anyone else in town who did it, those old jocks who now either own car dealerships or work at the gas station, but for some reason Richie gets away with it. Maybe because as much as he hates it every time, he knows Richie’s being an asshole but he’s not trying to be cruel.

Stan, Mike and Bill are in the living room. Bill and Mike seem to be locked in an intense game of chess.

Stan’s sitting in a seat watching them, but he gets up when he sees Eddie. “Thank God! It’s just been me and Richie since we found this chess set in a box and they got into a death match.”

“Hey!” Richie replies, mock-outraged. “Here I thought I was entertaining you with my professional wit and fun personality. It’s always the last people you’d expect.”

“You really have forgotten me if I’m the last person you’d expect to get annoyed with you, Rich,” Stan replies drily.

Richie flips him off, grinning and goes to annoy Bill and Mike. 

“How are you doing?” Eddie ends up saying, then fearing this sounds too unintentionally clumsy, he adds, “With last night, I mean. I definitely drank too much which is weird because I really never drink that much anymore, because I’m getting way past being able to do hangovers and uh, risk analysts aren’t exactly big partiers, and Myra says I get too boisterous when I drink, so…” He trails off, trying to stem the flow of babble.

Stan grins, looking amused, but it’s not smug like Richie’s. It’s just friendly, like he’s remembering an old joke, a good time they had.

“Yeah, I’m not doing too bad. Mike looked out for me, so I have no hangover. Anymore,” he says, intentionally getting louder at the end of the sentence. “No thanks to _some_ people here.”

Eddie sees Bill and Richie share a look, sniggering.

“You want a coffee or something? I’ve left a lot of the kitchen stuff out, so it’s no trouble,” Stan asks.

“I just had one, so I probably shouldn’t have another one because it makes me a bit, y’know, antsy,” Eddie replies, quickly. “Do you have any herbal tea?”

Stan gives him a wry smile. “Yeah I think I can manage that. Come on.”

Eddie follows him out of the living room and towards the kitchen. It’s still weird how familiar and unfamiliar it feels. It must be even weirder to have to live here. He looks around and sees a lot of opened and unopened boxes. The living room is emptier of furniture than he remembers, less fussily decorated but less warm too. There must be a fair bit of stuff in storage already.

“So, you’re sorting through your parents’ stuff?” Eddie asks, looking around.

Stan’s shoulders stiffen slightly. “Yeah, kind of another reason I came back.” Neither of them mention the other reason but it hangs heavy in the air for a moment. Stan’s changed out of the shirt he was wearing last night, and this one has long sleeves as well. _Is that why? _Eddie thinks. He hadn’t wanted to do that when his mother died. He can’t tell whether that just makes him a bad son. 

Stan looks through the cupboards and finds a box of chamomile tea. “This alright?” he asks, and Eddie nods. Stan busies himself with making the tea.

“Were any of your extended family in their will?” Eddie asks, and maybe he shouldn’t, but he’s curious.

Stan shakes his head, brows contracting. There’s a story there. “Not in an important way.”

“He didn’t leave anything to the Washington Urises?” Eddie says, remembering Stan complaining every time his cousins came to visit, or more often, when they had to go interstate to see them.

Stan chuckles, a shade too bitterly. “My dad wouldn’t have wanted to add any more to my Uncle Malachi’s pile, he was always bitching about how much more they had than us, and how little work he did, and how ungodly he was.” He shakes his head. “No, so I pretty much inherited it all, and I have to figure out what to do with all –“ he falters, splashing hot water out of the cup he’s pouring. “With, uhm, all of this stuff,” he finishes quietly, looking down as he pushes Eddie’s cup over to him.

“Thanks,” Eddie says.

Stan’s blinking down at his own drink, and he smiles self-consciously. When he looks up his eyes are reddish and watery. “I’m sorry, this is…apparently something I do now, without warning,” he says, attempting a jokey tone, but looking uncomfortable. 

Eddie’s never been one for speeches like Bill. He’s never been good at being comforting like most of the others, but that’s never stopped him from trying to anyway. 

“When my mom died, I was, uh, in this meeting at work,” he starts, steadily. “Well that’s what I pieced together later. I was twenty-nine, I think? Still a junior analyst. Working a lot, not a lot of time, made me antsy. I got this – call, from a doctor, asking me if I was living near where this hospital was, in upstate New York, Ithaca, you know, and would it be possible for me to come? And I said, no, I’m in the city, and they asked me if I was Sonia Kaspbrak’s next of kin, as they had been told, and I said yes, and they told me what had happened. Heart attack. In the grocery store, of all fucking places. She just dropped, apparently. Some random woman shopping next to her called an ambulance for her.”

Stan is listening intently, something painful and understanding in his expression. “Jesus,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, almost feeling like he wants to laugh, even though it’s one of his worst memories. And he’s got a lot to choose from. He looks down at his tea, and half-laughs, awkwardly.

“It was just like – it took me by surprise, because I’d only got her set up in Ithaca like three years earlier, so she could be closer to me, you know? I had to pay some people to get her moved because it’s not like I had any time to come back here and do it myself. And she didn’t really have anyone here, but it was _so hard _to convince her to leave, she kept talking about how moving is the number two highest stressor, and her nerves couldn’t handle it. Like, she would have _hated _living in the city, but I thought she’d enjoy living somewhere pretty like Ithaca, and she wasn’t that far from me. Well nearer than here, anyway,” he says, and he has to take a breath. He never really talks about it, he’s realising. Certainly not with Myra.

He takes a sip of his tea. It’s supposed to be calming. “She was supposed to be there for a lot longer, you know? And I – I drove up to Ithaca by myself, and I tried to sort through it, but she was _such_ _a goddamn hoarder_, and I just _couldn’t_ –“ he breaks off, finding his eyes getting hot and his vision blurring as he looks at his tea.

He looks at Stan, who nods understandingly, red-eyed. “You shouldn’t have had to do that by yourself, Ed. I’m sorry.”

Eddie shakes his head. “Don’t be – I saved a few things, and I paid some guys to take the rest of it away.” He looks back at Stan. “It really fucking sucks doing it by yourself though. That’s why we’re here though, you know. To help out.”

Stan gulps, or maybe it’s a half-swallowed sob. “I’m so, so glad you are,” he says hoarsely. “Sorry, crying again.”

Eddie smiles a bit at this. “I mean, we both are now. So.”

Stan laughs, a half-startled laugh. “True.”

Eddie chuckles. “Better stop before Richie comes to annoy us. He’d be insufferable.”

Stan laughs again. “Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t yet. You know what Mike and Bill are like when they play chess. Full concentration, no distractions.”

Eddie laughs. “That’s true. If he asks, we’re talking about boring work stuff.”

Stan nods, grinning, and takes a sip of his drink.

Eddie looks around the kitchen counter. There are some old books down the end, including a familiar one with pictures of birds on it.

He looks back at Stan. “Do you still birdwatch?”

Stan looks surprised. “When I can. Not as much, now, but yeah, it’s still a hobby I guess.”

Eddie nods. “That’s nice to hear. I liked going with you, when I did. It was kind of…calmer .”

Stan grins. “True. I was surprised you could stop talking during it.”

Eddie gasps, exaggeratedly. “You _loved _having me there, don’t lie,” he says, shaking his head indignantly.

Stan laughs. “I did.”

Eddie looks back at Stan. “You want to go sometime? I get up early usually, anyway.”

Stan looks gratified, and still a little misty-eyed. “Yeah I’d, uhm, really like that.”

_He’s seven and they’ve just moved to town, and Dad’s been gone for a while. Long enough that he’s starting to forget there was a time when he wasn’t, but short enough that Eddie can still remember he had one, and he used to sing lullabies. And that he was shorter and smaller than Mom, and that he used to let Eddie curl up in his lap in his old recliner, when he fell asleep in front of the TV, and he never got mad about it, just carried him off to bed. Eddie sometimes pretends he’s moved to the moon, because Mom won’t say what happened, just that he stopped living one day when Eddie was in daycare, and asking about it makes her mad, so he doesn’t. He doesn’t tell her about the moon, either._

_Mom is anxious about sending him off to school, even though he was in school last year too. She was anxious about it then too. “You need a good education though. Information, Eddie-bear, is your only weapon,” she used to say, and he didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded terrifying. _

_He’s small and shy and starting at this new school in January, now, which is weird because it’s halfway through second grade, and everything will be different here. He comes to school with a backpack full of medicines for all of his allergies, the ones Mom worries about so much, and his inhaler, because without it Mom says he could have an asthma attack and die, and he doesn’t want to just stop living like Dad_ _ so he keeps it near him at all times, which is handy because the thought kind of makes his throat close up. _

_He doesn’t have any friends, and he doesn’t want to leave Mom when she drops him off in the morning. He doesn’t like this school, but he didn’t really like the other one before. He had one friend there though, Alvin, who wore glasses and shared crayons with him, but they didn’t see each other outside of school. Still, that’s one up on here. _

_He’s eating in this spot he’s found that’s away from the other kids, and out of the way of the meaner older kids who’ll push you into a locker for nothing, just in passing. He doesn’t really like the crush of kids sitting together, coughing and sharing food and germs. Mom is always going on about being very careful around the other kids, because they could make him sick. Sicker. He wonders if Dad was sick too. He can’t remember if he was. _

_He’s just about to sit down when he notices this boy sitting there, very still, looking at the trees and writing something down in a little book. He looks very absorbed in the task. _

_Eddie feels strangely annoyed by this. He doesn’t have much to look forward to in school, but this is his lunch time spot, and it’s usually empty. Who does this kid think he is?_

_“Hey,” he says, surprising himself. “You’re in my spot!” _

_The kid looks at him, tilting his head in a curious, oddly birdlike manner. _

_Eddie wonders if this is going to turn into a fight, because he’s not prepared to do that, and then promptly decides he doesn’t need to worry. _

_“Sorry. I just had to record this ruby-throated hummingbird, I’ve never seen it here before,” the boy says, big words in a reedy, small voice. _

_Eddie is confused then, and forgets his anger. “What are you doing?” he asks, curious, sitting down next to him._

_The boy points in front of them. “Can you see it, on the roots of the tree there?” he says, in a voice just above a whisper. _

_There is a tiny bird, black-headed with a flash of red at its throat, so bright that for an awful second Eddie thinks it’s injured. “What’s it called again?” he asks, quietly. _

_The boy points at his book. In his book, he’s neatly printed: “Ruby Throated Hummingbird” and the date and place next to it. He has neater writing than any kids’ Eddie has seen. Certainly for a boy. _

_“Why are you writing down birds?” Eddie asks, looking at the list of others he’s seen. “My mom hates birds. She says that they carry disease, and that I shouldn’t go near them.” _

_The boy gives him a look like he’s just said something crazy. “Some birds, maybe. Pigeons. Not all. It’s a hobby – that’s what my dad calls it. My zayde," he says, and then pauses, "- My grandpa - taught me to do it, he’s got hundreds of birds in his book,” he says, eyes lighting up in his last sentence. _

_Eddie doesn’t know why anyone would do that, but he doesn’t know why people do a lot of things. Why his Mom is constantly cleaning. What will set her off. So he doesn’t question it. _

_He notices again that the boy is wearing a strange kind of round hat. Not even a hat, because it doesn’t cover his head at all. “Why’s your hat so small?” he finds himself asking. _

_The boy gives him another look, but like this is obvious. “It’s a yarmulke. I have to wear it, I’m Jewish.”_

_Eddie nods like he understands what any of that means. He recognises the last word, or part of it, he thinks. Maybe he’s heard it from Mom, when she goes off in rants about people, but he doesn’t really know. _

_“That’s a religion,” the boy says hesitantly, looking defensive. Maybe he gets pushed into lockers too, just for wearing that tiny-whatever-it’s-called. _

_“Cool,” he says, honestly. He doesn’t know much about religion except he hates having to wear hot, fancier clothes on Sundays. The boy’s expression warms, and he smiles for the first time. _

_“You’re new, right?” he asks, and Eddie nods solemnly. “I’m Stan. I’m going to find my friends now, if you want to come.” _

_Eddie finds himself feeling excited – cautiously – for the first time since he moved here. “Yeah, I would,” he says. “I’m Eddie.”_

_***_

Bev knocks on the door.

“Are you sure you don’t need me to carry one of the bags?” she asks Ben, and he shakes his head.

He’s carrying their groceries, but it doesn’t even seem like a strain. “I’m fine, I lift weights heavier than this,” he says, with a self-deprecating grin.

She grins back. “Alright, alright, Superman. They’re home, right?”

Ben nods, and then the front door is opened, somewhat surprisingly by Richie.

“Richie! Great to see you, but since when are you the person that volunteers to get the door?” she says, with a laugh, giving him a hug.

He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Since apparently I’m the fucking doorman now, on account of the fact that Stan and Eddie are having some kind of powwow in the kitchen, and Mike and Bill are _still _locked into their fucking chess match.”

“Richie! Who gave them a board? Remember the Winter deadlock of 1992?” Bev exclaims.

Ben grins, shaking his head. “Rookie error letting them have a chessboard, Rich. Have they passed hour three yet?”

Richie pales. “Don’t say that, they’ve just got started an hour ago.”

Ben laughs, and he shares a look with her. “Rookie error,” they say at almost the same time.

Walking past them in the living room as they head to the kitchen, they call out hi. Mike and Bill are staring intently at the board, and don’t seem to register for a few seconds. Then they call out a half-hearted reply, not looking up. It’s such a familiar sight, the number of times she’d seen them do that at the farmhouse where she and Mike lived, it throws her for a minute.

“Well,” Bev says to Richie. “You haven’t lost them completely yet. They’re still at ‘hearing outside sounds’, we may still be able to save them.”

Richie grins. “I mean, Mike’s playing chess in a cardigan, and Bill keeps muttering to himself, I don’t think there’s any saving them.” 

She swats at him, but laughs.

Getting into the kitchen, Eddie and Stan are indeed talking, holding mostly-empty-looking tea cups.

“And as you can see, it’s a riot in here as well,” Richie says, deadpan. “What thrilling responsible adult conversations are you having?” 

“Work stuff, mostly,” Stan says drily. “About our _responsible adult _jobs.”

“Can’t relate to that, Stan my man,” Richie says, with exaggerated boredom. He eyes a box of teabags on the counter. “And you’re drinking _herbal tea? _Eds, I sense your sinister hand in this. ”

Eddie makes a face at him. “Again, fuck you, and it’s calming. Which clearly, I fucking need. You could stand to try it.”

Richie makes a face. “If you tell me you’re into kombucha too, we may have to end this friendship.”

Eddie opens his mouth to retort, and as they bicker Stan comes over to her and Ben.

“You didn’t have to get all this food, guys!” he says sounding surprised but grateful, motioning Ben to put the bags on the counter.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ben says lightly. “We’re seven adults having lunch, we’ll go through a lot probably.”

“Still, that’s very generous,” Stan replies, appreciatively, giving him a hug hello now that he’s put the bags down.

“Well you’re one of the only people I’d do it for,” Bev says, also giving him a hug hello.

Up close, she can see his eyes are a little red, and she wouldn’t put it down to simple tiredness. Whatever they were talking about maybe wasn’t as easy as work stuff, but she doesn’t ask. He does seem happier than when she first saw him last night.

“You slept alright?” she asks, trying not to sound too worried.

He nods. “Yeah, I did,” he says, smiling. There’s something he won’t talk about there, but she doesn’t pry.

“Good,” she just says. “I didn’t expect this place to feel so familiar, you know? I don’t remember coming over here as much as you came to the farmhouse.”

He looks around the kitchen momentarily and nods. “Yeah, actually. A handful of birthdays and studying sessions, I think?”

“Yeah, I remember,” she says, nodding. Ben nods in agreement.

For a moment they seem to get caught up remembering those times, studying for Chem while the family tabby curled up on their notes and Stan had to physically pick her up off them, standing next to him and cheering while he blew out the candles on his cake, dancing stupid dances to anything straight-edge enough not to shock his parents. His parents didn’t like her either, and they seemed to tar Mike with the same brush, so she’d never really liked them, but still. It didn’t mean she wanted them to die prematurely.

“So, are we making lunch now? Happy to do it, but someone needs to help because I’m not being the Snow White to you guys’ Six Dwarfs,” Bev says with a wry smile, mostly joking but also not.

“Don’t say that about Eddie, Bev, you’ll hurt his feelings. He’s a very normal height, ok?” Richie says, smirking, as he and Eddie come up to them. Eddie glares at him. “Fuck you, I _am _average height, which makes me normal,” he says. “If anything, you’re freakishly tall.”

“Well as long as I can always look down on you, I’m happy,” Richie replies, grinning beatifically.

“I’m happy to help,” Stan says, giving them his patented long-suffering look.

“No, no, you’re having us here, I’ll help, otherwise I might end up strangling Richie, and that would maybe ruin the mood,” Eddie says darkly.

“Maybe?” Richie echoes, indignantly.

Bev sighs. “So it’s sorted, then.”

***

“I believe that’s a checkmate, my friend,” Mike says, victoriously, smiling widely.

Bill studies the board, and lets out a held-in breath that contains several swearwords. He groans defeatedly, but accepts it by putting his hand out to shake. Some weird holdover from their childhood games, because Bill had said that’s how his dad had taught him, to shake at the end like good sports. Mike supposes he must have been that kind of Dad to Bill, once, the kind that taught him things like chess and catch. The kind that laughed and spun him around and let him sit on his shoulders, maybe. But by the time Mike knew him, until the day he and Mrs. Denbrough moved to Arizona and Ohio – no, Ohio and Florida, he thinks, in maybe his and Bill’s junior or senior year of college – for new starts in places that didn’t constantly remind them of their dead child; for that whole time he was mostly busy and standoffish, and seemed to not want to have anything to do with his living one.

They shake hands. “Good game,” they say, overlapping each other, same as before. 

Mike blinks and looks around. “How long have we been here? Didn’t people come in before?” he asks Bill.

Bill shrugs. “I vaguely remember it? Where the hell is everyone now?”

As if on cue, Stan and Richie come out of the kitchen door and make a beeline for them.

“Game over?” Stan asks, with a small smile.

Mike grins. “Yes.”

Richie groans. “Fucking _finally. _Gonna have to hide that board from you chess nerds from now on, I forgot how weird you get about it.”

Bill frowns. “No, I’m gonna need it. There _will _be a rematch, Hanlon.”

Mike chuckles. “How many times do you need to lose till you learn, Denbrough? I’m a teacher, I’m pretty good at schooling people!” he says, cocky from the win, and Richie says, “OHHHH” in exactly the same way he used to when they were fourteen and someone had just got in a _sick burn_, and it’s so familiar it makes everyone crack up for a moment. 

“Guess I don’t need to ask who won then,” Stan says, smirking and Bill shakes his head, but he’s grinning too. Mike puts his hand up for a high five and Stan catches it, almost without looking.

Bill makes an indignant noise of protest, half-hearted because he’s still grinning too much for it to land. “Hey!”

Stan shrugs. “Hey yourself, you knew the risks. You come at the king –“ he starts.

“ – you best not miss!” Mike finishes, triumphantly, sharing a smirk with Stan.

Bill laughs. “And you’re Omar then? Truce?”

“A Stringer truce?” Mike asks, raising an eyebrow suspiciously. 

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve all seen _The Wire_,” Richie cuts in, in a defensive way that makes Mike certain he hasn’t but is familiar enough with it to recognise the reference. “But maybe more relevant than a show that’s probably older than some of Mike’s students, I’ve been given orders by the wildly efficient and honestly fucking _terrifying_ duo of Eddie and Bev that you assholes can’t get out of helping with lunch. They need you to set the table.”

Mike and Bill make similar indignant noises, and Richie turns to Stan with a grin. “Obviously, you’re not one of the assholes, Stan, that’s just the chess nerds. We would never call you that. They said you didn’t have to help, either,” Richie says, laying it on deliberately thick.

Stan rolls his eyes. “I can think of several occasions where you personally called me that, but I appreciate the sentiment,” he says, dryly, but softens a little. “I’m happy to help set up though, I probably know where everything is better than any of you.”

“And that’s why we value you as a friend,” Richie says, mock-seriously. “Your encyclopaedic knowledge of and talent for finding hidden plates and cutlery.” 

“Shut up and help me find a tablecloth,” Stan says attempting a frown, its edges already being pulled up into a grin. 

*

Mike had actually forgotten what a well-oiled and terrifyingly efficient (or maybe just terrifying) machine Bev and Eddie were when they decided to do something together. Group projects quivered before them. Board games and two-person trivia teams were hard fought away from them.

Lunch is really good, and surprisingly very healthy. He wonders whose influence that was. Eddie’s, maybe because of all his food-health related hangups, or the kind of thing Bev would make at home, or maybe even Ben, who had seemingly been helping in the kitchen too (albeit in a more sous-chef role, most likely). He definitely looks like the kind of person that knows the benefits of kale and açaí berries and can give you healthy recipes for salads and vegetarian pastas.

It’s just – nice, being around everyone again. He’d thought he was certainly busy enough with lesson plans and marking and teaching, and whatever things he could fit around that. Driving out to Portland when he had time and having the sort of experiences you can’t really have in a small town like Derry. He wouldn’t have said he was particularly unhappy with it, a little stressed sometimes. But this – everyone chatting, laughing, teasing each other as if no time had passed – he’s beginning to realise how much he’s missed it, and just how big the hole is in his life without them all. He doesn’t want to dwell on that, though, so he’s trying to just enjoy it for as long as everyone can stay.

Being back in this house is weirder, and altogether less enjoyable than that though. He can’t escape the spectral memories of the people who used to live here. Sometimes, it’s like he can almost feel their disapproval, on the back of his neck.

_He waits on the doorstep, having knocked politely. He’s picking Stan up, in his secondhand sturdy old pickup, so he can teach him how to drive stick. _

_“You have to help me, please, I’m desperate. I don’t want to have to ask my dad, and Mr Aitchinson is so weird to learn from,” Stan had begged, over lunch. “I can maybe just barely pay you, maybe, or I can find something else to give you –“ _

_“Steady on there,” Richie had cut in, in his loopy British general voice. “You don’t need to give up your precious virtue for driving lessons, Stangela. There must be another way!” _

_Stan had looked unimpressed. “Fuck off, Richie,” he had said automatically, flipping him the bird without stopping to look. _

_Mike had laughed, but in a light-hearted way. “Hey, hey, we’re friends, you don’t need to pay me. How about Saturday morning?”_

_Stan had frowned. “Shabbat, unfortunately. My dad thinks we’re not doing enough to respect it, so he’s really cracking down on what I’m doing,” he had said with a grimace. “So I’ll be in temple most of the morning, at least. Maybe afternoon?” he had said uncertainly. _

_“Sorry, no, I should know by now,” Mike had said, a bit sheepish. He’d known Stan for about three years now, and it’s not like he didn’t listen when he talked about his religion. He actually found it very interesting, especially when Stan’s eyes lit up talking about the things he liked about it. What must it feel like to have that kind of passion for something like that? He might have known, if things had gone differently in his life. He thinks about it a lot. “What about Sunday morning? Does that work?” Mike had asked, smiling apologetically. _

_Stan had looked deeply relieved, and nodded. “Ten a.m. ok?” _

_Waiting on the Uris’s porch is always a weird experience. He’s been to Stan’s house for birthday parties and the like, but he almost never comes here alone. In fact, he’s struggling to remember if he ever has. He doesn’t get the feeling that Stan’s parents like him. Or maybe it’s not even whether they like him or not, because they’re not exactly huggy-and-overly-warm with any of the others, either. It’s just a – feeling of uncomfortableness, distance – one he’s not exactly a stranger to in this town. _

_Their front door finally opens, and Rabbi Uris stands in the doorway in sensible slacks and a long-sleeve button up, looking confused as he looks Mike up and down. _

_“Michael.” He says, clipped, like he’s expecting Mike to start trying to sell him an encyclopedia set. “What are you doing here?” _

_Mike tries not to resent the tone in his voice, already suspicious. He smiles, but not too widely in case it skews a bit too Richie and makes Rabbi Uris think they’re Up To Something. “Just picking Stan up, Rabbi Uris. We’re just going to hang out with the others,” he says, and technically it's not a lie because they’re going to do that after driving. But Stan asked him not to say anything about it. _

_Rabbi Uris looks suspicious. “Right, the rest of your friends,” he says, after a moment. “Bill Denbrough will be there too?”_

_Mike can’t see why this changes anything. If anything, Bill’s the one that leads them into trouble most often. Certainly he’s the reason they all ended up in the underbelly of a sewer, in mortal danger, that first summer together three years ago. “He will, sir,” he says politely, anyway. _

_Rabbi Uris seems to consider this. “He’s a smart kid. Good,” he says, definitively. Mike thinks privately that being smart doesn’t mean Bill has ever had good sense,_ _ not the kind that the Rabbi is clearly hoping he’ll exercise and influence the rest of them with. Not that they care, because they love following him into whatever adventure he’s got in mind. __Mostly._

_They stand in awkward silence for a moment. Just as Mike’s about to ask if Stan’s going to come out soon, or whether he can tell him he’s here, Rabbi Uris speaks again, suddenly. _

_“You live out on Sackett Farm, correct?” he says, seriously. _

_“Yes, sir,” Mike answers, surprised enough that he almost doesn’t add the ‘sir’. Rabbi Uris is one of those parents who seems to expect this from children. Not all his friends’ parents do – Richie’s dad is always telling them to call him Went, and joking around with them, but they’re definitely on the more laid-back end of the parenting scale. Too laid-back, maybe, according to Richie when he’s had a joint or a few beers. _

_He considers Mike. “Do you have any plans for higher education?” _

_Mike can hear the implicit insult without him saying it, but he keeps his back straight, and his expression polite and calm. “I do a lot on the farm, for Ernie, and when I’m not doing that I do shifts at the diner. I’m still figuring out whether Ernie needs me, and if I could get financial assistance to somewhere like Maine U.”_

_Rabbi Uris purses his lips. “I see. When you’re not finding time to drive your friends around, I guess?” he says, and there’s something antagonistic about his tone. Mike tries not to take the bait. Things like this are not new to him, the implication that he doesn’t belong, that he’s not good enough. They pretend it’s about other things but he knows what it’s about. Kind of a hard thing to forget. _

_“Well, I think it’s important to have good friendships, and keep them,” he says, steadily. “I’d be pretty isolated without them.” _

_Rabbi Uris just nods, looking like he’d rather Mike was anywhere else in the world than taking up space on his front porch. There’s another awkward silence. _

_“Could you tell Stan I’m – “ Mike starts and Rabbi Uris cuts him off. _

_He frowns. “You know, young man, I don’t say this to be cruel. I understand you kids went through a terrible ordeal together, and that can make you feel –“ he starts, and his expression is strange and angry and somehow – scared. He takes a breath and starts again, and Mike listens with increasingly horrified fascination. _

_“I appreciate that you’ve been a – a good friend to Stan, since what happened,” he says stiffly, and Mike seriously doubts he does. “I don’t have to tell you that he seemed to come away worst injured, and he was already fragile –“ his expression is definitely upset now, as upset as he’ll_ _ let himself get in front of someone like Mike. He obviously loves Stan, the memory is obviously just as painful – or even more – as it is for Mike, thinking about the cuts and purplish bruises around his face back then. But Mike wants to tell him, suddenly, that he’s wrong – that he might look it, with his skinny limbs and his delicate way of looking at things, but Stan is not fragile, that he’s the bravest of them actually, because he was the most afraid and he came with them anyway_ _ – but he doesn’t. Rabbi Uris looks at him, some kind of big emotion that could be either positive or negative knocking up against the bounds of his respectability, standoffishness and general uncomfortableness with Mike. _

_“But at a certain point, you’ll have to stop relying on that – safety-blanket feeling that maybe you give each other. It’s not healthy.” Rabbi Uris says, sternly, in what is probably his sermon-giving voice. Mike wouldn’t know, he’s never been invited to any of them. And it’s not a faith thing, because he knows everyone but Bev – who of course, he’s sure the Rabbi thinks of as some scarlet woman temptress even though she’s sixteen and has only dated the same boy for the past two years – has gone to at least one event, and none of them are Jewish. “Soon you’ll be going to college, and you’ll find people who are more – like you_ _.” _

_There it is. He really tries not to take the bait. _

_“Farm people, you mean?” he says, and he’s trying to keep his voice even but his pulse is racing. A long time ago, so long he can barely remember it but it stays in his memory as one of the only things he can remember about his parents, his mom is holding his hand and saying to his father – at least he thinks it was his father, but he can’t even really remember the face – “Never get angry. Remember? You can’t get angry.” It echoes in his head now. He can’t give him the satisfaction. “Or – people who like the Proclaimers? I hope so, because it seems like I’m the only one who likes that song about walking five hundred miles. Do you know it?” he says, and he shouldn’t have taken the bait but his heart is racing now. He wants to hear him say it, at least, and stop hiding behind euphemisms. _

_Rabbi Uris’ eyes narrow dangerously, and Mike can see Stan in this but none of his humour, or his warmth. “Stan will be going to a good school soon, and he needs to keep his head down and study hard if that’s going to happen,” he says, testily, colour blooming in his cheeks. “And he certainly doesn’t need to likes of you dragging him down, going nowhere fast –“ _

_“Did you give Bill this speech too?” he says, unable to keep from shaking with anger now. _

_Rabbi Uris looks incensed, and he colours even more. “You better watch your tone, young man. Your friend Bill is going to go to a good college, probably an Ivy, like Stan. I’m not worried about Stan associating with him, they’ll have that connection through college and into adulthood.” _

_Before he can stop himself, Mike replies, “Oh, yeah, I know. He’s the white kind of friend for Stan, right? Sorry, right. My mistake.” He’s still not raising his voice, but he’s allowed himself more visible anger than he meant, and he regrets it. Shutting the Rabbi up with that comment is viciously satisfying, though. It’s short lived. _

"_His parents are good people. Moral people. They’ve raised a morally healthy son,” Rabbi Uris says venomously. “Unfortunately, I can’t say I believe the same of you.” _

_Blood pounds in his ears, and a rush of righteous fury threatens to knock him over. “Oh, you’re one to tell me I’m immoral, when you’re –“ he starts, and stops himself before he blurts out something he’ll regret._

_The Rabbi pales a little, and there’s a flash of something almost afraid in his eyes._

_Just as he’s thinking he might have to leave without picking Stan up, and what in the world can be taking him so long, Stan’s voice comes from behind. _

_“Dad, why didn’t you tell me Mike was here –“ he says, sounding annoyed and then he notices their faces as he comes to stand beside the Rabbi. His face falls. “What did you say?” _

_Neither of them says anything. Stan’s expression darkens even more, and he walks toward Mike. “We’re leaving. Now.” _

_Mike doesn’t need to be told twice. Rabbi Uris looks angry, and makes an odd, choked noise but doesn’t stop them. _

_They get in the car and drive until they’re away from the house, and then Mike pulls over, breathing heavy. _

_Neither of them says anything for a moment. Then Stan looks at him, and in a very small, remorseful voice, asks_ _, “What did he say? You know he’s full of shit, right?” _

_He can’t stand to see Stan look so guilty for something that’s so wholly not his fault. He looks at him, kindly, though he can’t bring himself to smile yet. “Don’t beat yourself up, it’s not your fault. And it’s nothing I haven’t heard before.” _

_This doesn’t cheer Stan_ _up much, and he sits there looking angry. “Did he tell you we shouldn’t be friends anymore?” _

_Mike pauses and nods. _

_Stan makes a wild, frustrated movement and swears. Mike is used to it by now, the way he’s like a pressure cooker, still and quiet and often disapproving but he goes along until he can’t, and then he has to let it out somehow, in bursts of concentrated anger and frustration. _

_He shakes his head, still vibrating with anger. “I cannot fucking believe he’d say that to you. Like, directly to you. He’s so fucking –“ he says, cutting himself off angrily because he can’t seem to find the right word to describe exactly what his Dad is. _

_“It’s ok, really. I’m fine,” Mike tries to reassure him. Stan doesn’t actually swear all that often, unless he’s casually telling Richie to fuck off, and these aren’t those. There’s no humour in them, just sharp, hurt edges. _

_Stan looks at him seriously, still looking angry. “But you’re not. The way you looked when I came out? I’ve only seen that kind of anger reserved for people like – fucking Bowers, you never let people get to you like that.”_

_Mike looks at him for a long moment, and wishes he wasn’t quite so perceptive, quite so attuned to his moods. _

_“So it wasn’t just that…” Stan realises. He looks horrified. “He didn’t say it was because you’re –“ _

_Mike can’t look at him and agree, so he looks out at the road, and nods. _

_“Fuck,” Stan says quietly, furiously. “You know that I don’t – I’m not – I don’t care about –“ he starts, suddenly, anxious. _

_This for some reason makes Mike smile, just a little one, but there. “Of course I know that, Stan. This isn’t on you.” _

_Stan looks relieved briefly, and then frowns again. He still looks angry, but now kind of at a loss. “I just –“ he starts, stops and starts again. “I don’t get it. The same fuckwits who hate you around here are generally the same fuckwits who’ve spray-painted swastikas on the synagogue and my Dad’s car. We should be fucking – sticking together, sticking up for each other_ _, not – doing exactly what they do to us, to each other.” He gasps, a sort of sigh-gasp that comes dangerously close to a sob, and Mike automatically reaches over to comfort him, putting a hand on his hand. It relaxes from its balled-up tensity. Stan looks at him, surprised but not greatly. _

_He supposes neither of them know where they’re at right now, how much is too much anymore. It was much easier before this year, they were affectionate then like they all are with each other, but then Bill and Bev went and got them all invited to parties, and one in particular made things weirder._

_“I know. But people are going to do what they’re gonna do,” he says, and smiles a little more. “Maybe we can look out for each other, though?” _

_Stan looks a little happier, and smiles. “Deal. Do you still want to help me learn how to drive? I’ll understand if you just want to hang out, or whatever.”_

_Mike chuckles. “Yeah, I think you can’t be a menace to the roads of Derry. Let’s do it.” _

_Stan grins, and Mike doesn’t want to remove his hand yet, but he does so he can drive them away. _

Mike hasn’t thought about the Rabbi and his wife, Andrea, so much in the last twenty years as he’s thought about them in the last week. He might not have liked them much, Stan’s mother less so but he still knew she was uncomfortable around him, but he didn’t think they’d deserved to die so abruptly.

“Alright everyone,” he calls for attention, after they’ve finished eating.

Everyone looks up, surprised.

“Jesus, that was scarily efficient, Mike,” Richie says. “Is that your teacher voice?” 

“Worked, didn’t it?” he says, smiling.

Richie considers this, and nods. “I still find it deeply disturbing you work at our old high school. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you’ve become the enemy and we can’t trust anything you say, man.” 

“As opposed to what, trusting anything you say, Trashmouth?” Stan jumps in, and Richie laughs with everyone.

“So, Stan and I are trying to sort through this stuff here, and we could use your help. Many hands and all,” Mike continues. “You don’t have to but let’s be real, what else are you going to do around here?”

Everyone laughs again.

“Well, I only ever used to hang out at the barrens, which I’m not gonna do by myself, and the arcade/theatre, and that seems to have been closed since the Bush administration, so, guess I’ll help,” Richie jokes, smirking.

“Thanks for deigning to help, Rich,” Eddie snarks back, sarcastically.

“Oh no I love to help, Eds, particularly like with your mom –“ Richie starts.

“Seriously, _fuck you_ –“ Eddie retorts, taking the bait furiously.

Mike looks at Stan, who is shaking his head.

“_Anyway_,” he says purposefully, in best his trying-to-move-the-lesson-along tone. It silences the two of them for the meantime. “There's a few rooms, who’s in?”

Everyone agrees heartily, like this is the reason they came. It gives them an excuse to be here that isn’t so obviously painful. It’s a manageable kind of sadness, distant. They could hardly be as upset about the accidental deaths of their old friends’ parents. Better than the intentional death of their son. 

***

Having been given a room to work on, Richie and Eddie get stuck into cataloguing and sorting through the storage boxes. Or, more accurately, Eddie does this while Richie attempts it, getting distracted by random bric-a-brac and thinking up burns to use on Eddie.

“Y’know, I can’t say that a week ago I would have found the idea of sorting and packing Stan’s dead parents stuff up from their old house in fucking Derry particularly enjoyable,” Richie says, pulling things out randomly from a box. “And I’d say that hasn’t really changed,” he continues, with a smirk “But even then, this is kind of weirdly more fun than I’d expect.”

“Richie, you can’t just randomly pull shit out and call it sorted, you have to try and figure out what we can throw out and what we’re asking Stan about,” Eddie says exasperatedly, looking at what Richie’s doing.

Richie looks at Eddie’s neat system of two piles. “Aw, but if I did it right you wouldn’t be able to scold me about it. I know that’s your favourite part, Eds.”

“Don’t call me Eds,” comes the automatic, if weary reply. “None of this is my favourite thing to do, Richie, but I’m trying to make Stan’s life easier, not harder, or has that not fucking occurred to you?”

“But you love it, secretly. Sorting and organising. Ordering me around, like a little general. Or an angrier, whiter Marie Kondo. I bet your sock drawer is beautifully organised,” Richie replies, grinning.

Eddie raises a finger, like he’s going to say something angry, but he just shakes his head and goes back to packing. After a moment he looks back at Richie. “Hang on, shouldn’t it be angrier, whiter, _male _Marie Kondo, anyway?”

Richie grins. He never gets sick of pulling the trap with Eddie. “I don’t know, should it?”

“Fuck you, Richie,” Eddie says, with feeling. Richie laughs and Eddie throws a pen at him.

“Edward! Throwing Stan’s parents belongings about after you just got pissy about me not doing it right!” he scolds him, just to see the face Eddie will make at him.

Eddie doesn’t disappoint. It might actually kill him, how little Eddie has actually changed. How easy it is to wind him up, even after this long. He can’t remember the last time they saw each other – it had to be some time in college, although their breaks never seemed to line up much and they certainly hadn’t had the money to visit each other’s coasts. It must have been some rare occasion they were both back here, visiting parents.

Richie’s always been the one to go a little too far, he’s always had a dumb sense of humour, and any of his childhood friends would agree to that. But there was something about the way Eddie especially fuelled it instead of letting him burn himself out that made it so satisfying to do. Something about the way it feels like a familiar dance, something you haven’t done in years but then you hear the music and the muscle memory returns, something about that is why he continues to do it now. Eddie’s the only one who knows the steps, even if he complains about them.

_Well_, the mean little voice in his head says, _that’s not the only reason you’re so focused on him. _

He watches Eddie methodically sort, and pretends to be paying attention to his own box.

_Shut up, little voice. _He thinks. _This is why we invented compartmentalisation, for fuck’s sake._

_They’ve just turned sixteen, and Richie feels like things are actually going well for him for once. He’s not doing badly in school, because his friends are horrible and are making him revise for tests with them, and he actually knows the material but apparently actually applying yourself to it makes a difference – jumps of minuses to pluses, a little bump to his GPA, but it’s not like he wasn’t getting good marks before, he just was constantly bullshitting his way through it. He’s also trying to not get in trouble so much in class, because if all his reports ever say is that he fucked around in class, no good, distant college will ever want him. And since Bill pointed this out – later seconded by everyone else – that he’d need all of this to get the fuck out of this town, he’s going to make sure he has it. _

_He’s dated two girls, both of whom were pretty hot, not for very long but he doesn’t want to be tied into a long-term relationship. And as much as he loves Bill and Bev, because they’re two of his best friends in the whole world, he can’t fathom why they want to be in this Serious Relationship that they’ve basically officially been in since they were fourteen. He can’t tell them this, though, Bev would kill him._

_Ok, so there was the milkshake incident with his first girlfriend, Debbie, but that was so early in the year he’s basically forgotten it. _

_And it’s a sunny day, and he’s going to the ice-cream shop to buy ice-creams for him and Eddie. Stan put in a good word for him at the theatre, and he’s trying not to mess that up on Stan’s behalf so he’s actually got money for things like ice-cream and videogames right now. It’s the start of eleventh grade, and Richie feels untouchable._

_He’s also just made a really great mixtape, one with that song by The Cure that he’s been listening to on and off for months. He suspects it could be kind of cheesy in anyone else’s hands, but they manage to make happy love songs sound cool and grown-up. _

_He walks to the shop, listening to it on his Walkman. Derry, even, looks nice in the sun. It’s not actually so bad a town, even if he can’t wait to be away from it in two years. _

Monday you can fall apart, Tuesday, Wednesday, break my heart, Oh Thursday, doesn't even start, it's Friday I'm in love,

_He listens to the lyrics, he basically knows them off by heart now, and enjoys the walk. _

_The ice-cream shop has glass windows, and it’s fairly busy, but he picks out Eddie’s dorky little shorts and tube socks fairly quickly. He smiles to himself, and then realises he’s talking to someone, and pulls his headphones off. _

_“What the fuck?” he says to himself, and he doesn’t actually mean to say it out loud and startle a passing family with little twin girls, but he does. _

_He’s talking to a girl. He can’t see properly, but it looks like Carrie Jennings. Why would Carrie talk to him? She’s way cooler on the social hierarchy than them, and she barely acknowledges Richie. And Richie is definitely cooler than Eddie, so why would she be seen talking to him? In public? _

_He enters the shop and makes his way towards them. Maybe they’ve been partnered up on a project? Although Eddie would have said something if he’d gotten someone like her as a partner. Maybe he didn’t in a futile attempt at not getting Richie to tease him about it. Well, that’s about to fail miserably._

_Eddie’s actually smiling, albeit in a nervous kind of way. He can hear Carrie kind of – giggling? That doesn’t sound like they’re just discussing homework. Her laugh isn’t as cute as he thought, in fact it’s kind of grating. She’s holding a vanilla ice-cream cone, so she already has her ice-cream, so why is she still here giggling in front of a kid who wears the terrible shorts his Mom buys and hasn’t started shaving yet? _

_She looks at him, beaming, and says something he can’t hear and then turns to go, looking distinctly giggly. She’s wearing a pink, white and cream striped dress and her skin looks even more weirdly pale against it, next to her long, dark curls. She smiles at Richie as she passes, but all he can do is look at her in total confusion. One does not leave a conversation with Eddie Kaspbrak giggling. Laughing, yes, sniggering, yes, but giggling? Girl-type giggling? It boggles the mind. _

_He walks up to Eddie, who looks so dazed he doesn’t notice him for a moment. “Ed. Eddie. Spaghetti man. Eds. Hello,” Richie says, and Eddie almost jumps. He doesn’t complain about any of the nicknames though, which is a bad sign. _

_“Hi Rich,” Eddie says faintly. He doesn’t elaborate, so Richie decides to just ask. _

_“What did Carrie Jennings want with you?” he asks, in a bigger, jokier voice. “Did she need a living garden gnome? I’ve always said you’d be good in that line of work, bud. You could sit there and frown at everyone –“_

_Eddie looks at him, almost looking as confused as Richie feels. “She asked me on a date? Next Saturday?” _

_Richie feels briefly like someone’s smacked a pillow square into his face and he’s struggling to get it off._ _ If he was confused now, he’s entirely fucking dumbfounded now. He struggles for something to say and only ends up saying, “You?” lamely. _

_Eddie nods slowly, like he can’t quite believe it either. Most worryingly, now, is the fact that normally Eddie would have retorted to the implied insult there. _

_Richie tries to regain his composure. “Maybe it’s like a make-a-wish thing? Did you tell her that you’re terminal? Does she just think that because of the inhaler?” he says, attempting his jokey voice again. “Maybe it’s a prank?” _

_Eddie reddens, and Richie thinks, fucking finally. “Is it that hard to think a girl might like me?” he says, annoyed. _

_Richie smirks. “Honestly, I can’t begin to understand the kind of addled mind of a person who’d want to date you, Eds, but I guess there’s a lid for every pot.”_

_Eddie scowls. _

_Richie chuckles, throwing an arm around him, too big, too exaggerated, but oh well. “Aw, if I buy you an ice-cream will you stop scowling? It’s a sunny day outside. The world is full of possibilities. What do you want?” _

_Eddie squirms and rolls his eyes, but he stops scowling. “Can you get me vanilla?” _

_Richie feels his grin drop. “Sure, if you want to be totally lame. Which would work for you, actually. But I said I’d get you one, and I’ll get you one. Even if it is boring fucking white-picket fence Church on Sundays two point five kids vanilla,” he says, and he knows this is a stupid thing to be annoyed about but it doesn’t stop him being annoyed about it, and he storms forward, hearing Eddie’s baffled-and-annoyed “What?” behind him. _

_It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s fine. This stupid thing – obsession – crush he’s had for the last three or so years isn’t burning itself out, but it’s not like he wants anything to happen. It’s usually fine, it’s just like sometimes Eddie gets really frustrated and his face gets all pinched and Richie feels a powerful wave of affection for him, and sometimes he wants to sweep his hair out of his face when they’re reading comic books together, and it’s all fine and normal and a common effect of spending so much time with your male friends, _ _as that one book he stole from the library said, and it’s all very reassuring except for how he doesn’t have the same thing with any of the other guys, even though he would give any one of them a kidney. It also hasn’t happened with Bev, who he also spends a lot of time with and would also donate a kidney to, and it’s sometimes just the two of them, and he loves her but he’s not in love with her, which is good because she’s dating his best friend and also Ben is already playing that role and she doesn’t seem to know. But it’s not good, and he knows why. _

_Same reason he got dumped once and broke up with the other girl this year, even if Debbie didn’t quite know it when she dumped him. He knew, with both of them that something was missing, or wrong. This isn’t how teenage boys feel around teenage girls, not normal ones. The problem is he’s been playing it up for so long that he sometimes fools himself into thinking that it actually is him. _

_He can’t face it, at least not when he’s sober and even then, he’s never said it. He can barely think it. But it’s there. In the back of his mind. Wanting to make Eddie laugh and annoy him into paying him attention. Hopeless. Absolute fucking lost cause. _

“So, Eddie,” Richie starts, surprising himself.

“What?” Eddie says, in a suspicious but resigned tone.

“What does your wife think about you being here?” Richie continues, seriously. Well as seriously as he can muster. 

“I swear to God, Richie, I’m going to smother you in your sleep,” Eddie mutters irritably.

Richie cackles. “Just as long as your little angry face is the last thing I see before I go. I find it comforting.”

Eddie makes a strangling motion with his hands, then drops them, shaking his head.

Richie keeps looking over at him. “No, really, I’m not being an asshole,”

Eddie snorts. “That’s a world first.”

Richie throws the pen Eddie had thrown back at him, attempting not to smirk. “No, Eds, you absolute maniac – I’m actually asking. What did you tell her?”

Eddie scowls, looking deeply disbelieving. His eyebrows might actually kill Richie. They might actually gain sentience and then _they’ll _be the ones to smother him in his sleep. Richie can’t help smiling.

Eddie shakes his head. “You don’t care what I told Myra, man. I know your game. You want me to say something, so you can embarrass me with it. Or you’re trying to get out of sorting. Or both.”

Richie adopts a nonchalant voice. “Why would I be able to embarrass you with it, Eds?”

Eddie narrows his eyes even more. Soon he physically won’t be able to see. “_Richie_,” he says, long-sufferingly. “Don’t call me that.”

Richie throws his hands up defensively, but he can’t help laughing. “Hey, I didn’t leave anything but beer in my fridge. And maybe some meat. And maybe some old Chinese…” he trails off, thinking. A tic goes in Eddie’s face. He’s probably thinking of how he’d clean it out, bless his little type-A heart. “But a few of us actually have marriages, however horrifyingly, and from what I hear they’re not super chill if you want to go back to your hometown and drop everything to hang out with your childhood friends, especially without them,” he says, with a laugh in his voice, although he’s actually curious now.

Eddie stares at him suspiciously for a moment. He opens his mouth and then closes it. “Ok, sure…just know, I’m going to fucking murder you if this is a joke,” he starts, suspiciously.

Richie grins. “Noted.”

Eddie shrugs, and looks down at the stuff he’s sorting. “She didn’t really get it, why I had to come. I was out of contact with most of you guys by the time we met, so – she just didn’t get why suddenly these friends were so important, when I don’t talk about them to her.”

“Well, thanks for that, Eds,” he says, half-joking. “Missed you too.”

Eddie flips him off, without looking at him. “Don’t call me that,” he says automatically. He looks up at Richie, and he looks strange. “You know I crashed my car, just after Mike called? I was so – I don’t know, I’d been thinking about dumb work shit, and stressing about that, and I was talking to Myra, and she was stressing about the storm front, or something, and I didn’t even know the number. I just picked up because it said Maine, and I felt like I had to.”

Richie nods, and looks back at him. “I threw up, you know,” he says, with an odd little half-laugh. Remembering it is weird and kind of horrible, and he can’t summon the energy for a full laugh. “When Mike called. He actually – somehow – contacted my agent, and got my number from him, and he must have been convincing as hell because it’s not like Steve just gives my number out to anyone, y’know? And all I saw was that it was from Maine. I felt like I knew it was bad, even before I answered, but like I had to pick up?”

Eddie looks a little surprised, but vindicated too. “Yeah, I think from that moment, I just –“ he looks down for a moment, then back up, looking strange again. His eyes are little too-red rimmed, but he half-smiles in an odd, rueful way. “I was at his wedding, you know? He’s one of my best friends. Or – was, I don’t know. It’s fucking _Stan_. Even if I hadn’t seen him in years, why wouldn’t I go? And I just told her that it was an emergency, and that I had to go. I couldn’t not _be here,_” he says, a little bitterly.

“Sounds like it went well,” Richie deadpans.

Eddie gives him a look. “Yeah, it went _great_,” he says sarcastically, and then looks away again. “I don’t know what I’d even have done if – if he hadn’t made it,” he says, in a very small voice, and Richie would make any kind of dumb joke or bad impression just to get him to stop sounding like that. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen him, but it actually hurt, when Mike told me what happened. I don’t – I don’t get how it still means so much, after all this time.” 

Richie can’t look at him, so he looks down at the things he’s pulled out of the box. Old books and things. “At the risk of getting dangerously close to being serious,” he says, half-jokey, more confident than he feels with his nerves jangling and his heart beating a little too much. “It – totally fucked me up to hear about him, too,” he says, tapping a finger on the book he’s supposedly looking at. “I think some people – make a mark on you, and it doesn’t go away. Even after – like, decades,” he says, and looks up, like an idiot.

Eddie’s looking at him curiously, suddenly. He opens his mouth, maybe to say something, but Richie can’t take any of this anymore, and so he continues. “Like your mom, who I know I’ll never forget,” he says, and grins.

Eddie’s eyes flash, confusion then dawning rage. He’s still for a moment, like he’s in shock. Then he speaks. “I am going to _fucking strangle you Richie!"_ he says, and lunges at Richie, who moves back, cackling.

Richie can still feel his pulse racing though, still feels like an idiot. He almost got too close to it there – he doesn’t remember the last time he was honest like that. He’s never honest like that. It reminds him of sleepovers with the guys (and later with everyone), staying up next to Eddie in the late night-early morning, just talking honestly. Somehow the darkness, or the lateness made it easier for him to just talk, without having to joke around or insult Eddie.

He’s going to have to watch it, or he’s going to end up accidentally admitting something incredibly stupid to Eddie. Who might be married to an awful-sounding woman, but he is still married. To a woman. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! I take super long to update, but when I do it's monster chapters like this, so hopefully it was enjoyable! Thanks for sticking with it, if you have been, let me know what you thought cause I'd love to hear it :))


	4. Roll Up Your Sleeves (Everything's Going To Be Alright)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and it's back! I always feel like i have things i want to note here but by the time I get to uploading I've forgotten all of them. Thanks for sticking with it :) apparently all of these chapters are going to be super long, because i'm a disaster and i cannot be stopped, but enjoy!
> 
> (and many many thanks to the glorious @manycoloureddays, brilliant friend and brilliant beta, who I haven't acknowledged yet because of said forgetting anything important I need to say whenever I finally get the chapters ready for upload!)

Everyone ends up circling back to the living room after a while, bringing stuff out to the box that’s going to be donated and the box that’s going to the dump.

They all ask his opinion, but Stan trusts their judgement. He can’t get caught up in the minutiae of it all. He might keep a few things for sentimentality, but most of it will either have to be sold, donated or thrown out.

Everyone works in easy silence, not getting too caught up – until Stan opens his next box. It’s not labelled.

He pulls out an old pair of binoculars. “Oh shit, I think these were my first birding binoculars…” he says with a quiet, nostalgic smile.

Ben, who is working near him, looks up and smiles. “Hey I – I remember those. The number of times I saw you with those around your neck…”

He smiles reminiscently, and goes to stand around Stan’s box. “What box is this?” he asks, curiously, pulling at something in it.

“I don’t know, I just started on it. I could’ve sworn they’d thrown these out though,” Stan says in disbelief, motioning to the binoculars.

Ben gasps in excitement and disbelief, pulling something long and colourful out of the box. “No _way _man, I can’t believe they kept this! Is this like all your childhood stuff they couldn’t bear to throw away?”

“Whaaat, noooo….” Stan half-whispers, picking up an end of the long, stripy knitted scarf Ben is currently looking at with reverent joy. “My Tom Baker scarf? I cannot _believe _I’m looking at this!” 

Ben beams, winding it around Stan’s neck. It looks smaller now, obviously. It’s still as soft. “You know, add a long coat and maybe a waistcoat, you’d kind of look like him, with your curls,” Ben says, appraisingly.

Stan chuckles, sceptically. “I think I’m a _little _old for Doctor Who cosplay, Ben.”

Ben grins. “Hey, there’s no point being grown up –“ he starts, and Stan can’t help grinning, finishing his sentence.

“ – if you can’t be a little childish sometimes,” he finishes, and Ben laughs delightedly. 

“I can’t believe we both still remember that,” he says, smiling widely.

“Me either,” Stan says, still grinning. “I still remember emailing you when I heard about the tv movie in college. I was so excited, damn.”

Ben grins in recognition. “I remember that! That _movie. _Wasn’t it like, a half-US production? It was – not what I was expecting.”

Stan grimaces, and chuckles. “No, me neither. Half-human, honestly.”

Ben makes a derisive noise in agreement.

“Did you ever watch any of the new series?” Stan asks. 

Ben makes a so-so hand motion. “I remember liking that first season, I don’t know, what, ten years ago? Even though it wasn’t really like _Doctor Who, _it was kind of fun and nostalgic. I really liked that Doctor though.”

“Yeah, I remember being like, he’s _got it_, you know, the kind of energy that Tom Baker had.”

Ben nods, expression clouded over with nostalgia. “I liked that one…kind of dropped off after that season. I was busy working, and I didn’t really, uh, have any other fans to watch it with,” he says, a little melancholy right at the end.

Stan thinks about when it came out. “Patty and I watched it for a bit together, but I think then we got into other shows. It came out the uh, year we got married…” he says, trailing off and looking down at the scarf, feeling awkward suddenly.

Stan feels the material of it with one hand. Sense memory, every time it rubbed against his neck, the way it felt between his fingers. “I can’t believe Mom kept this.”

_They watched tapes of it, over and over, went over to each other’s houses to watch it. _ _Committed it to memory. No one liked it the way they did, it wasn’t a group activity. It was too British, or too boring, or not gory enough, or too cheesy or any number of reasons. Regardless, they’d been shocked and horrified to hear that after twenty-five years on air, the current season would be the last. They’d been horrified there wouldn’t be any more, but really, their favourite Doctor was a few ones back anyway, so they could just watch their tapes of him. _

_It had been on his fourteenth birthday that she’d given it to him. He’d been talking about the scarf a lot with Ben, the whole mad-professor look, but it was the scarf that he loved the most. She’d knitted it herself, must have taken ages. _

_He hugged her after he unwrapped it, his most exciting present – not that he even had many – next to the sort of practical things his father thought he should have, but were in no way exciting. _

_“I can’t believe you did this – I love it so much!” he said, rapt. _

_She beamed at him, winding it around his neck. “It gets so cold around here in the winter, darling. I thought you deserved a scarf that you’d like. I’m sure I don’t understand that show so much, but I appreciate how happy you look talking with your friend about it.”_

_He smiled, and hugged her again. “I love it,” he said into her shoulder. _

Ben gives him an empathetic smile. There’s some quality in him, still, that makes it seem like empathy and affection comes off him in waves, leaks out of his pores, that he would do anything to fix things and make it better. He was always good at that, which is maybe why he’s an architect. He knows how to fix old things and build new and better things from there.

“She worked hard on it, she wasn’t going to throw it out, right?” Ben replies, quietly.

Stan nods slowly.

“She was always kind to me. I appreciated that.” Ben says, after a moment.

Stan looks at him, and smiles a little. “She was good like that.”

Someone wolf-whistles, breaking the reverent memory – perhaps for the best, otherwise he might have started to cry.

They look over in the direction of the sound. Richie looks confusedly back at them. “What’s with the scarf?”

“You don’t remember it?” Ben calls, sounding surprised.

“Should I?” Richie asks, then narrows his eyes. “Wait, it’s coming back to me. It’s part of your old nerd shit that you guys were obsessed with right?”

Stan snorts. “Oh, our nerd shit, coming from the guy who wouldn’t miss an episode of Star Trek: TNG?” 

“And who almost wore out his Star Wars tapes rewatching them too much?” Ben adds, smiling.

Richie scoffs. “Star Wars is basically mainstream now anyway, everyone and their mother saw that new one last year.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, still makes you a nerd,” Stan returns, grinning.

“Coming from the guy in the _Doctor Who _scarf, that really hurts, man,” Richie volleys, grinning.

“I knew you knew what it was!” Stan replies, chuckling.

Ben is sorting through a small box within the box they’re sorting, and he looks up again excitedly, pulling something out of it. “Rich, get over here, you have to see this,”

Richie raises an eyebrow, but comes over.

Ben is holding a cassette tape with a decorated label, and he hands it over to Richie. “Remember this one?”

“Nooo…” Richie says in delighted disbelief, examining it. “This was one of my best ones! Your parents really _did _keep all the shit you didn’t take to college, huh. Come to that, what the fuck, man? You didn’t take this with you, after all the hard work I put in? The drawings I did on the cover?”

Stan gives him a look. “You got Bill to do those for you.”

Richie throws up his hands in mock outrage. “I outsourced! Do you remember how hard it was to make these little bastards?”

Stan grins. “You realise this isn’t even one of the ones you made just for me? I took all of _them_! Maybe even this one, I had to send stuff back when I graduated, stuff got mixed in that I didn’t mean to send back.”

Richie narrows his eyes, then nods like he’s going to accept this. “Man, I thought I’d be embarrassed by my teenage self’s music taste, but no, apparently I’ve always had great taste. This shit _still _fucks,” he says, looking over the track listing. 

Ben shakes his head, grinning.

“And so humble, as always,” Stan replies drily, but Richie doesn’t respond. He hands it over to Stan.

“Tell me I’m wrong, then,” he says, smirking.

Stan looks at it. It’s compact in his hand, he’d forgotten how small these things were. He kind of misses the physicality of this kind of music – your Spotify playlist doesn’t get destroyed by accidentally tangling the black tape inside it, but you can’t touch it either. It was kind of special to have a compilation like this, and it isn’t anymore, now that you’ve got everything at your fingertips.

The front cover is a skilled drawing of a dragon – no way that Richie did it, but he’d forgotten how good Bill was back then. He remembers a drawing on one of the personalised ones Richie gave him, another dragon, but wearing glasses and a tiny yarmulke. That part was almost certainly on Richie’s instruction, but it makes him grin to think about. The title of the one he’s holding proclaims, in coloured letters, _Richie’s Losers Mix ’94. _

Senior year then, he thinks. How did he end up with this one? Maybe someone left it in his old cassette player after a party or something, and it never went back to Richie. He reads the track listing on the back. The first track is _Mr Jones – Counting Crows. _Not surprising, Richie had been obsessed with that album when it’d come out the year before, and had not stopped being so the next year. Stan had always found their stuff a bit mournful, but he liked this song.

“Oh _no,_” Ben says, and he looks up, but something about his tone still seems oddly delighted. Then he sees what Ben is hauling out of the box and shakes his head. “Oh no, what’ve you done,” Stan says, and Richie whoops.

“We _have _to play it now. It’s a sign,” Richie says.

“We don’t even know if it works anymore, it’s been over twenty years –“ Stan points out, but Richie will not be dissuaded.

“Bill, look what we’ve found! _And _one of my best mixes!” Richie says, calling him over.

“Your old tape p-player?” Bill says incredulously to Stan, coming over to look. “Does it work? I think I saw some b-batteries in the kitchen. I’ll go and see if I can find them,” he says, and hurries off.

Richie grins. “See this is why Bill is the leader. He thinks of solutions, instead of bringing me problems.”

Stan snorts. “I can think of a few occasions where he brought us problems,” he says with dark humour.

Richie laughs. “Dark, but not untrue.” 

“He is good at finding solutions, though,” Ben adds and Stan nods in agreement.

“Unless it’s writing an ending to one of his books,” Richie snarks, and they both groan.

Having abandoned any pretence of keeping going with their stuff, Mike, Bev and Eddie come over to look at what’s going on.

“Beep beep, Richie,” Bev says, almost hiding her smile, squeezing in next to him.

“What?” Richie asks, like he doesn’t know why he’s eliciting this response. “He _knows_.”

“Aw, Big Bertha,” Mike says nostalgically, looking at the boombox. “I never thought I’d see her again.”

Stan laughs, remembering. “I forgot you named it.”

“Trying to remove the old batteries could be dangerous, just so you know, they might have exploded or anything in that – “ Eddie starts, eyeing it suspiciously.

“Live a little, Grandma Kaspbrak! Remember your youth!” Richie cuts him off, and then feigns stopping to think. “Wait, you were always like this, right.”

Eddie flips him off. Stan puts the tape down, and Eddie picks it up, scanning the back.

“I remember this one. You got obsessed with Pixies and you and Bev kept playing _Where Is My Mind _all the time,” Eddie says, shaking his head. 

“I have no regrets over our teen angst, that song is still good,” Bev retorts, but she’s grinning.

“I put _Basket Case _on there for you, obviously, Eds,” Richie says, and his voice is over-loud and jokey.

“Fuck off, Richie,” Eddie says, but he’s fighting a smile. He had seemingly liked that song a lot, even though he didn’t otherwise seem to get Richie’s Green Day obsession.

“_Cornflake Girl_ for you, Bev, because you played it until it stuck in my head for the rest of senior year,” Richie says, looking over at her.

“Oh please, you loved it,” Bev dismisses him easily. She’s got the tape off Eddie. “Aw, Weezer. I haven’t heard _Buddy Holly _in years.” She smiles mischievously at Richie. “You _still _look just like Buddy Holly.”

The rest of the guys laugh.

“Well, you’re no Mary Tyler Moore.” Richie returns weakly, grinning.

Bill comes back having actually managed to find batteries. “We r-really have to sort out that junk drawer, Stan, there’s just a lot of r-random shit in there,” he says, giving him the batteries.

Stan prises off the battery pack cover, and it’s fine. The ancient batteries in there are a brand that he’s pretty sure doesn’t exist anymore, but he pulls them out. They’re not going to get this to work, surely. It’s ancient, and a bit dusty, although it has been fastidiously packed away. 

“I don’t expect this to work, ok, guys,” he says, but everyone’s watching with excitement anyway. It’s almost like a direct line to the past if they can get something like this to work. He puts the cassette in the tape holder, then puts the batteries in, replaces the cover and switches it on. A light goes on, and he feels an inexplicable jolt of excitement. He presses play and even though the quality isn’t the best, Adam Duritz’s voice sha-la-la-la-la-la’s out of the speakers, and a cheer goes up from everyone. 

He hasn’t heard this song since maybe college, but hearing it is pure high school. Playing on the radio, in the background of hanging out at Richie’s house with others, in Richie’s terrifying old car.

They’re more cheered by the discovery of an old photo album, and for a moment they’re lost in time, forgetting all the worst parts of senior year with nostalgic music and snapshots taken at happy moments. Some badly angled or out of focus, some clearly taken by a competent parent. They pass Beck’s _Loser _looking at old Halloween costumes and birthdays in the basement just below them.

Then they get to the end of the photo album, and a few photos that give Stan a jolt like the past has just punched him in the gut. He’s been getting that feeling a lot recently.

“What’s that one?” asks Bill. “Oh that’s – “ he says, softer.

“Prom,” Bev says, warmly, taking it out off the book after Stan nods. “God, look at that dress,” she says, a laugh in her tone. “Making my own prom dress was maybe my peak Molly Ringwald moment.”

Bill shakes his head. “Well, unlike her in that m-movie, you actually knew how to m-make a dress that looked good. It looked really – beautiful,” he says, smiling at her. It’s one of those moments bound up in the nostalgia of two people who used to love each other a lot, and it’s weird to be around. They all knew so much about each other, but it reminds him sharply that there were things shared just between the two of them, a closeness no-one could touch. His fingertips feel strange against the photo album for a moment.

Ben doesn’t look particularly happy. Eddie looks anxious. Richie looks annoyed at the memory. Mike looks – he accidentally catches Mike’s eye and then looks back at Bev.

Bev hands him the photo, and everyone looks at it. Come to think of it, everyone looks strange in this photo, too. Bill in his tux, and Bev looking radiant in her green dress, simple but effectively pretty. Both of them beaming, very close. Eddie and his girlfriend, Carrie, her smiling and looking nice, him looking like he was about to sit to an exam, not go to a dance. Ben and Mike standing next to each other, Mike smiling, one arm around a more downbeat-looking Ben, and his other around Richie, pulling a face in his white tuxedo jacket and a very loud shirt. It must have been taken outside Bill’s house, he recognises it in the background, and maybe he’d asked for a copy. He can’t think why, because he looks kind of awkward and a little annoyed in this one, next to Rachel Adler, his high school girlfriend of about a year and a half, wearing something purple and stiff-looking, with a lot of bows. She’s smiling for the photo, but he can see in her eyes that she’s annoyed too. And he remembers it.

_“Can you help me with this, Stan?” Rachel asks, a bite in her tone. She’s readjusting her corsage, and he doesn’t know what she needs his help with but he helps her all the same. _

_“Thanks,” she says, and softens a little. “You sure we can’t skip out after the photos and get dinner just us?” _

_He’s taken aback by this. He knew she wasn’t thrilled that he wanted to meet up with his friends beforehand and get dinner as a group, but he thought she had accepted it given that they were all now together and had only made plans to be together, before they went to Prom. _

_“What? I – we’re going to go out to eat with everyone, remember? And anyway, nothing would have any room at this point.” _

_She frowns, and her eyes go steely again. “Of course. You’re always right, Stan,” she snipes. _

_“I just thought we’d agreed to this, and I don’t want to be rude – “ Stan replies, trying not to let his irritation show. She’d never quite clicked with his friends, but she’d always been happy enough to go to parties and such with them. Of course, it probably wasn’t really about them. They’d been getting into all these little fights recently, probably partly to do with exam stress – before she’d got her Yale acceptance she’d been totally wigged out about it, which hadn’t helped his own anxiety before he got his Princeton acceptance – and he knew, probably as much as she did, that they weren’t going to last long-distance. _

_“Of course,” she says derisively, under her breath. “Wouldn’t want to offend your precious little club.”_

_“No I wouldn’t,” he snaps, letting his frustration get the better of him. He takes a moment. “I’m sorry, can we just try to have a good night, Rach?” he asks quietly, and says after a beat. “Please?” _

_She frowns at him for a moment, then nods. “Alright. Let’s try,” she says, with a small, conciliatory smile. He smiles a little, but he can tell it’s not really fixed. _

_“Ok everyone, gather up, I want to take one of you all. If it’s nice enough you can keep a copy, and look back on it, and laugh about how mistaken you were with your fashions,” Bill’s dad says. He’s not usually a joker - that’s generally Went Tozier’s role - but he seems proud and light tonight, even attempting a few jokes. He can’t imagine what he’d do if his dad started trying to be jokey and light. He couldn’t even picture Rabbi Donald Uris making a joke._

_He looks around. Bev and Bill are looking at each other moonily, and he’s both happy for them and annoyed at them in the moment. He can’t remember the last time he and Rachel looked at each other like that, although they definitely did once. Eddie looks like he can’t believe his date, but he’s had that expression regularly since she first asked him out. Richie is fucking around near Ben and Mike, having been corralled away from messing with Eddie by Mike. He looks wild, but he can’t imagine Richie wearing anything like your average tux. Ben looks down, and Stan’s pretty sure the reasons are standing close together further down the lawn, looking at each other like they can’t see anyone else. Mike seems to be trying to cheer him up, smiling openly. That’s Mike for you, always trying to make sure everyone else is ok. _

_He catches Mike’s eye, and Mike smiles at him. He smiles back, feeling happier already. Mike just has that effect on people – out of them, he should be one of the most pissed off, he should be an angry kid and he isn’t. Just relentlessly positive, mostly. Stan doesn’t know why he didn’t bring a date, because he knows for a fact that at least two girls wanted to go with him, but he said he’d prefer to go stag with Richie and Ben and not have to worry about anything else. __Maybe he’s just being nice though, because Richie’s been in a worse mood than usual lately and there’s only one girl Ben would have wanted to ask anyway_._ Looking after people at his own expense, again. _

_Everyone gets into a line for the group photo. The couples stand together. Rachel makes an annoyed noise that he can’t figure out. Ben stands next to him, attempting to smile, or at least not look openly miserable. _

_“You right?” he says in undertone. _

_“Yeah, it’s fine,” Ben says, attempting casualness. _

_“We’re good,” Mike says, throwing his arms around Ben and Richie’s shoulders. _

_“Fuckin’ dandy, Stanley,” Richie says, humour a little sharper edged than usual._

_“Alright, 1-2-3,” Bill’s dad calls, and everyone faces the camera. Rachel puts on a smile he knows she isn’t feeling. He doesn’t think he even manages one. _

***

“_Great _night,” says Richie, voice dripping with irony. He compartmentalises a lot for fun and profit, but this is something he put in a box a long time ago, writing do not open and storing it at the very back of his brain. He can’t believe how old they thought they were at the time, and how young they look now. “Messing with couples at prom is a true punk tradition.”

Eddie looks annoyed already, which is great. “God, you _were_ extra irritating that night, I almost forgot.”

“Honestly, I’m surprised you can remember any of it, Rich. Weren’t you pretty drunk?” Bev adds, like she’s remembering it again.

“You were?” Bill asks, sounding surprised. Of course he didn’t notice, the gym could have exploded around them and if he was dancing with Bev he wouldn’t have realised.

“_Pretty drunk,_” he says, using exaggerated air quotes. “Not my fault everyone but my buddy Ben was too square to party,” he says, elbowing Ben matily.

“God, I wish I hadn’t just remembered that,” Ben says, sounding embarrassed. “_So_ hungover. I can’t believe no one saw that hipflask.”

Richie grins. “I’m a stealthy guy. I kept it my jacket, and it just looked like we were drinking punch. In hindsight, I should have spiked the punch bowl. Then it could really have been a fun night.”

“Which would have ended with you being arrested, asshole,” Eddie snaps.

Mike groans. “I’m so glad none of my students have come close to your chaotic energy man, chaperoning dances is already the worst.” 

He shrugs at both of them like, you win some you lose some. “A lot of people would have remembered me as a legend. Certainly for the service I did for trying to stop you inflicting your dancing on the world, Eds.”

Eddie’s eyebrows narrow and slope. It never fails to get him, the way they do that. “Don’t call me that. You were really on another level that night. I thought Carrie was gonna break up with me!” He looks over at Stan, looking guilty. “Uh, sorry Stan.” 

Stan looks confused for a moment, then smiles a little. “Yeah, I’m gonna say it’s been over twenty years, I think I’m over being dumped on prom night.” He looks at Richie. “I’m not over you throwing up on my shoes, though. That was fucked up.”

Richie grimaces, sheepish. “And your pants, a little bit.” Everyone groans. “Just being honest!”

He cocks his head a little, putting something together. “Is that why she dumped you? Because you smelled like vomit?”

Stan gives him a deeply Stan look. “I’m sure it didn’t help. But no, she dumped me because I helped Mike take your drunk ass home and let you crash at mine. Especially since the only reason you could crash is because my parents were out of town that weekend. She wasn’t particularly thrilled that I was choosing to stay with you guys instead of her.” 

“Because you had made,” Richie pauses for effect and wiggles his eyebrows. “_Plans_ for that night?”

Stan rolls his eyes. “Oh my god, you really never matured past adolescence, huh?”

"It's my fountain of youth,” Richie returns, grinning. He doesn’t remember much of prom past photos, and throwing up, and being shepherded into Mike’s truck and the vague memory of crashing in Stan’s bed. On the whole that night isn’t exactly fond memories. He remembers feeling guilty for ruining Stan’s night. It can’t have exactly been the kind of prom night with an empty house he was imagining.

“That is ridiculous, you were trying to help your friend.” Bev says, incredulously. “She never liked us much though.”

Stan nods, with a small smile. “Yeah. So I don’t regret it that much.”

Mike smiles a little at this. “Alright enough reminiscing, let’s get back to it,” he says, and everyone grumbles, but goes back to what they were doing before.

Richie works for a bit, sorting through some old birthday cards that he’s sure he can throw out.

The music ticks over to The Cranberries, _Linger, _and he’d read it there on the tape label but he’d forgotten how it felt to hear it. Maybe it’s being here again, too.

Everyone is doing their own thing, but he can sense a weird, nostalgic mood in the room. Maybe it’s the time they spent reminiscing just now, maybe it’s something else.

_If you, if you could return/ Don't let it burn/ Don't let it fade/ I'm sure I'm not being rude/ But it's just your attitude_

He kind of wishes it wasn’t playing – it’s easy to defend _Mr Jones, _or _Loser _or even _Come Out And Play_ as songs he’d liked, but it’s harder to explain what he liked about _Linger _without having to admit some real big things. 

He watches Eddie methodically sorting, and smiles, and then gets sprung when Eddie looks up. Eddie looks suspicious, and annoyed. “What?”

He grins, and acts nonchalant. “Nothing, Eddie Bear. Go back to sorting.”

Eddie frowns and raises a hand, palm flat like a blade, but doesn’t say anything. Then shakes his head, muttering.

He looks over and Ben is staring at Bev in the same way. She’s helping Bill out with whatever he’s doing, and Richie hopes for his sake he’ll look away before the same thing happens to him.

He’s about to go out for a smoke, or something, just to get away from the tedium of sorting through someone’s else’s random family history packed up into boxes, when something falls out of the stack of cards he’s packing up.

It’s an addressed envelope. He picks it up and notices firstly, that it’s got weight to it, and secondly, that it’s addressed to _Mike Hanlon, Sackett Farm, Derry ME 04401_. He almost calls out to Mike, maybe to tease him about it. But then he’s wondering why an unopened letter to Mike is sitting in Stan’s parents’ old things, forgotten. Is it from one of them? He can’t imagine Rabbi Uris would have written to him, he hadn’t liked him much. At all really. Stan’s mother didn’t seem to hate him, but she’d never seemed comfortable around him either. The writing is neat enough to be a woman’s, but looking at it, he realises he knows exactly whose handwriting it is. And he’s wearing glasses and going through a box nearby.

It’s got something in it, something small and thick. He desperately wants to know what it is. And then he has a terrible idea. He’s not unfamiliar with them, they make up most of his choices back home. But he’s mostly the only one they affect, too. He’s smart enough and sober enough to know that if he was doing the right thing, he’d show it to either Stan or Mike. He can’t tell which he’d even tell first though – and fuck it, he’s never claimed to be a saint, he wants to know what it is. What’s inside it. Why it was never sent and languished here since at least 1996, give or take a few years. There’s something painfully familiar about it all, just beyond his comprehension.

The letter is small enough to not bulk it out, thankfully.

***

Mike suggests that they all go on a walk, just to get out of the house for a bit.

He’s familiar with the woods, but he hasn’t been here in a while. Not a lot of non-weird reasons for an adult man to skulk around the forest by himself. It’s not really near work or his home anyway.

They used to come here a lot, all together, in groups. It’s definitely weird, being in the woods again with these people – but it’s a good weird. A weird he’s missed, with Richie bitching about getting fresh air and bickering with Eddie, and everyone talking.

They stop in a spot, and something feels weirdly familiar about it. 

Ben looks around suddenly, a curious expression on his face. “Guys I think – I think I found the club -” he says, stamping a foot down and then suddenly disappearing through the leaves. 

Everyone runs to look through the hole.

“The ground finally _did _swallow you whole, Ben!” Richie calls.

“Ben! Are you alright?” Bev asks nervously, giving Richie a light shove.

“Do you feel dizzy? Because that can be a symptom of concussion, and –“ Eddie starts.

“Yes, Dr Kaspbrak, what’s your expert opinion? Will he live? Will we have to amputate?” Richie cuts him off, putting on a dramatic voice.

“Shut_ up, _Richie,” Eddie snaps.

“I’m fine, the landing was soft,” Ben calls up. “I think I found the old clubhouse.”

Mike grins. “I can’t believe it’s still here.”

***

Eddie objects to everyone climbing down into the clubhouse on an old wooden ladder that’s been there, unmaintained, since the first Bush administration, but of course they do it anyway. Because his friends might look like adults entering middle-age, but they are in fact, fucking children. 

Stan is the only one who seems to resist going down, before being cajoled into it by everyone else.

“Really?” he asks, looking deeply unimpressed. “I’m happy for you guys to go down into the dark hole in the ground, but can’t I just stay up here?”

Everyone insists though, and he ends up rolling his eyes but Eddie knows it’s all over because he’s fighting off a grin.

What if the ladder breaks? What if someone pulls something – at the point they’re at in their lives, you can pull a muscle just turning your head too quickly. What if they have to call emergency services, and they have to say, oh just look through the forest until you find a big hole, and yes we are seven forty-year olds in that hole, just reliving some childhood nostalgia.

“Come on Eds,” Richie calls, going down the ladder. “Live a little. You could get eaten by a bear out there.”

“You know we don’t get bears this near the coast, fuckface, and also don’t call me that,” he hisses, but starts down the ladder anyway.

The old clubhouse is overgrown and dirty, but it’s still so familiar that it shocks him. _It’s like a _time machine, more than the rest of town – he remembers so many afternoons here, so many summer days just hanging out. It was their own secret little spot, one that was just theirs.

Ben had found the structure, and fixed it up for them. “In hindsight, we should have known you’d end up with your own construction empire,” Eddie says, looking around, and then at Ben.

“I’d hardly call it an empire,” Ben says modestly, but smiles, looking around at it.

Eddie looks down, and recognises something in the dirt. Against all better and usual judgement, he picks it up. It’s a little red ball. He smiles.

He turns to Stan. “Remember what this was from?”

Stan frowns. “I remember you batting it at my face until it broke.”

“You broke it with your face!” Eddie protests, reviving a decades-old line of bullshit.

Stan glares at him. He looks over at a faded, holey piece of material strung up nearby, and smiles evilly.

“You remember that?” he asks.

The hammock. He feels a rush of affection, nostalgia and excitement as he remembers it. What is it about hammocks that is wildly exciting to you when you’re a kid?

There was something about it when they were younger that made it the best seat in the house. They had set rules about how long they could each have in it, and of course Richie had to break those rules. Nothing set him off more, and he’d get in and try to annoy Richie out of it by any means possible, and on some occasions kicking his glasses askew with a foot.

“Yeah, I remember Richie was always breaking the group rules about it,” he says, annoyed but still probably a little too fond.

Stan looks at him, eyes too knowing. He forgot Stan used to do that. “Well, all I remember is you guys spending a lot of time bickering in it. And canoodling.”

Eddie opens his mouth indignantly. “Hey, it wasn’t _canoodling, _I was trying to take my time and he wouldn’t leave!”

“Right,” Stan says, giving him an unconvinced look.

Eddie opens his mouth to argue – what else, he’s not sure, but he feels like he should – and Richie chooses that moment to come stand next to them, grinning widely. “What are you nerds talking about now? Taxes? Death? Both?”

Stan rolls his eyes. “He’s all yours, Eddie,” he says, and walks away.

“Your worst nightmare,” Richie jokes. He’s in that big mood again.

Eddie sighs.

“God, you remember the fights we used to get into for that hammock, Eds?” Richie asks, and there’s something very fond fighting the edges of his bro-comedy voice.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, softer than intended. Richie catches his eye for a moment. “Because you _always _tried to take my time, fucknuts!”

Richie grins. This is more familiar ground. “Hey, rules of the jungle baby! And you got me back like a million times – I remember once you – “

Eddie works very hard not to smile. They’re older, obviously, but it’s unmistakeably them. And though he’s in an abandoned clubhouse hole in the ground and he’d rather fucking eat glass than let Richie know because he’d be unbearably obnoxious about it, he hasn’t felt so at home in a while. 

***

Stan walks away from them, shaking his head. He probably shouldn’t have been teasing Eddie – it wasn’t fair. He’d forgotten about the hammock until now, how they used to fight over it. No one was as obsessed with the hammock as Richie and Eddie. They used to get curled up in it together, as much could be reasonably explained as friends trying to annoy each other by being in each other’s space.

He used to wish he could just tell them or something. But it wasn’t like that was exactly the problem, or at least, not the biggest one. Whether they knew or not, it wasn’t like they could’ve done much about it. No one was throwing any parades in Derry. It’s not like he could judge them, for fearing that anyway.

He spies a little tin box on the old table and it tugs a distant memory. He picks it up, brushes the dust off it, and remembers what it is the moment he opens it up.

“Your shower caps!” Bev says delightedly, coming over. He smiles at her.

“So we wouldn’t get spiders in our hair,” he says, remembering. “Which I’m still not _thrilled _about, right now, to be honest.”

“If I see a spider anywhere near you, it’s dead meat,” Bev replies, in that lovely way she always had – laughing, but not at you, not mocking. 

He grins. “Appreciate it, Bev.”

“I’m also on hand to pick spiders out of your hair, if you need backup,” Mike says easily, coming up to them.

The clubhouse is pretty big, but Mike’s tall enough to almost reach the ceiling. Stan has to look up at him slightly. He smiles at Mike, too. “Well, then I’d say that’s that anxiety settled. One down…five thousand more to go,” he exaggerates, jokingly. It’s funny because it’s basically true.

Thankfully Mike and Bev don’t give him sad looks. “You’re telling me,” Bev agrees, and Mike makes an emphatic noise of agreement, and this makes them all laugh for a moment.

Bev looks down at the box of shower caps that Stan is holding.

“You remember the first time we put these on?” she says, twinklingly.

Stan grins. “Yes. Richie and Eddie couldn’t wait to take them off, and all I was trying to do was make things a little _less gross _for everyone.”

“You’d have thought Eddie would have been in your corner on this,” Bev agrees. “Maybe he was afraid of looking stupid.”

Stan nods. He looks to Mike. “Mike wasn’t. I think he was the first one to put it on.”

Bev looks at Mike, too, smiling. “I think we both pulled it off.”

Mike chuckles. “Well, I might have less of an issue with them, but I didn’t exactly want spiders in my hair either.” He smiles at Stan, and there’s something warm and nostalgic in his gaze, and Stan wishes for a fleeting moment that the old chair wasn’t broken so he could sit down. Then Mike looks at Bev, and Stan wonders what he was thinking.

“Remember how you said you wanted to go to – where was it? Florida, right?” Bev is saying to Mike, like she’s rediscovered something well-loved packed away in storage. 

Mike smiles with the wistful joy of looking at a childhood toy that you put away a long time ago. “Oh yeah…I forgot about that. Florida,” he repeats, and he smiles wider.

“Why Florida, again?” Bev asks.

Mike shrugs. “I don’t…I think I just heard about the beaches and the warmth and thought, that’s where I wanna go,” he says with a laugh. “Not that I really knew anything about it.”

Bev laughs. “I mean, I’ve been to Miami. That’s fun to do,” she says, and tips her head at him. “Did you ever get to go? Anywhere in Florida?”

Mike shakes his head, still smiling. “No, not – I guess I just… decided a while ago that Florida was a long a way to go for nothing specific. I took holidays closer.”

Bev looks at him, curious. “Would you go now? Or is it somewhere different now?”

Mike looks like he’s thinking about it. “Well, obviously there are more places on my bucket list than just Florida,” he says with a grin. They chuckle with him. “But I don’t know…I still kind of wanna see Miami, maybe,” he says, and grins, edging wistful again. “You know, if I was going to go down I’d bring someone with me. I’d like to make a road trip of it, or something.”

Something in his tone catches in Stan’s brain. He sounds fine, really, not bitter or anything. It just stirs up a memory. “I think I said once I’d come,” he finds himself saying, with a smile. “Maybe I can be your road trip buddy sometime. If you don’t get sick of me after being cooped up for hours in the same car. I’m deep into various different podcasts, just a heads up.”

Mike looks at him, surprised, and smiles so widely, so warmly, that Stan almost feels dizzy. “I don’t think I could get sick of you. But if it’d make you feel better I could play my historical audiobooks, they’re _very_ in-depth. That would make us even,” he counters, and Stan laughs. Mike laughs, and the thought occurs to Stan that he doesn’t know why Mike doesn’t have someone to bring already. He doesn’t know how it’s possible, really. 

“Ok, deal,” Stan says, not looking away. Something that sounds like Richie and Eddie bickering loudly breaks the moment, and Stan looks away. This hole in the ground is too hot, he should get out of it soon. As he looks away, he sees Bev looking at Mike, who is looking at Eddie and Richie. She has a strange expression on her face, curious but almost more than that. He sees it for a moment before she calls something out to Richie, and Stan looks at Mike looking at them and feels strangely guilty.

***

The forest is calm, relatively untouched since Ben was in it last. It’s another thing that makes him feel like a kid again, but this time it’s good. It’s calming. Stan used to go bird watching in this forest, and he came along sometimes. Writing down fragments, drawing plans for things. Stan didn’t care as long as he wasn’t loud – which was perhaps why Richie was banned from coming. 

He’s sitting against a tree, just above the entrance to the old clubhouse, pouring through the old notebook Bill found. Bill’s sitting against the tree opposite, going through a different, smaller notebook.

He’d had a jolt of adolescent fear when Bill had found the notebook he’d apparently left behind – thought he’d lost it, or maybe he’d abandoned it out of frustration a long time earlier – but he figured he probably wouldn’t have left anything too embarrassing just lying around in this place where they all went. Certainly not where Richie could find it, because he’d almost certainly read the poems in a variety of silly voices when everyone was around. Richie wouldn’t really mean it to be hurtful, but it would also have made Ben wish the ground would swallow him up. That’s why he’d rarely told others about his poems, only occasionally and only the ones that weren’t too sad or lovelorn. It was scary, giving that part of yourself away, even to people who you knew you could trust. 

Bill seemed to understand this – the book was a little withered and dirty from two decades in the neglected underground of the clubhouse, but Ben’s name was legible on the inside cover – because he had asked if he could read it, once he realised what it was. He’s an author, after all.

Ben had agreed, because he wanted to look at the old sketchbook of Bill’s he’d found. Poems still felt harder to show people than drawings, but there was still an element of trust there. Trust that you won’t laugh, trust that you won’t judge the things depicted most often.

So they were sitting, opposite from each other, going through them. Bill’s sketchbook was also similarly damaged from its bad storage, but apart from the covers being bent and a few stained and insect-chewed pages it had preserved itself strangely well.

The book itself must have been from junior or senior year, because the drawings got progressively more advanced in technique and style. Bill had always had an eye for drawing, but this was the time that he’d really turned a corner with it, drawing all kinds of things: fantasy characters, nightmare creatures, or sometimes just studies of the rest of them.

“I forgot how good you were, man,” Ben says, studying them.

Bill laughs, self-deprecating. “Yeah, f-for a sixteen year old trying to scribble daydreams onto p-paper.” He grimaces, pauses to think about it, looks up. “I mean, nothing’s changed b-but the medium I work with now,” he says, with a grin. His stutter is better when he isn’t drunk, Ben notices. It was uncontrollable when he was afraid. Or it used to be.

Ben chuckles. “Yeah, I guess. You wrote then, too, though.” He looks across at Bill. “Why’d you choose writing? I remember you looking into art schools.”

Bill shrugs. “I guess…I didn’t t-think I could cut it as an artist. I didn’t feel good enough,” he says, and smiles ruefully. “Well, no, maybe I w-would’ve done it, but an English degree was an easier sell to my dad. I think he w-wanted me to be a teacher, or something. At least I could p-pretend that I wasn’t trying to do something creative, until I was out of school and trying to write my first novel. Kind of hard to keep it from him at that p-point,” he says, and he smiles again but it’s definitely more bitter. 

Bill and his dad had always had a complicated relationship the whole time Ben had known him, and they’d dealt with Georgie’s disappearance in opposite, conflicting ways. The only time he could really remember them getting along, having an easy relationship, was around the end of senior year – maybe because Bill was going off to do his sensible English degree at college, maybe because he thought that was Bill settled.

Bill chuckles, still bitter. Not harsh, just a thread of it there. “He should have had Mike as a son. Mike did the s-sensible thing. And he teaches.” He pauses. “My dad loved Mike, actually. Felt bad f-for him. He was everything p-parents love: sensible, p-polite, hardworking, not sassy to adults.”

“Not everyone’s parents,” Ben reminds him.

Bill nods solemnly. “Right, y-yeah,” he says, and then bursts out a frustrated, “Fucking s-stutter! It’s b-better at home, b-barely comes out.”

He looks annoyed. “I think it’s this town, it’s fucking suh-suh-psychosom-matic!” he says angrily, and then he catches Ben’s eye and they both start laughing.

Ben wonders if he went to a speech pathologist or just figured it out his own. He must have seen Bill once or twice here, during breaks, and he can’t remember if it had gotten better. Honestly, after knowing him for a couple of months he’d sort of forgotten he even had it, it sort of faded into the background next to everything more exciting in his personality.

“Fuck,” Bill says, wiping his eyes. He looks down at the poetry book, and back at Ben. “Come on then, how come you never p-pursued this? These are good, man. I say this as a p-professional writer, even though I d-don’t write anything like this.”

Ben shakes his head, feeling his cheeks warm. This is why he never showed them to people much – he couldn’t handle rejection or mocking, and he’s never been good at taking compliments. “I wasn’t going to – they’re just – “

“Scribbles?” Bill says, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not saying you didn’t m-make the right choice with architecture; I mean, you own your own firm now, w-which is_ insane,_” he says, with a grin. Ben smiles. “But, I guess I just think you could’ve done it.”

Ben laughs, surprised. “I could be an unemployed, middle-aged poet, right now,” he says, and Bill laughs. “No, I guess – I didn’t think I could ever show them to people. Some of them were a bit…personal. I didn’t want people to laugh. It’s harder to laugh at floor plans. Although with some people I’ve worked for, not impossible.” 

Bill laughs but gives him a funny look, and for a moment he’s deeply reminded of Stan. It’s funny how they started to pick up each other’s characteristics a bit. He wonders how much he’s unconsciously picked up from them, what parts of them he shows to other people without realising it. 

“You know I get that, r-right?” Bill asks. “You think I always felt l-like my work was genius? I write weird horror shit, I’m still c-convinced that everyone’s j-just tolerating it, and some day – well, actually, I’ve had my f-fair share of reviewers saying, well t-this is the one where he’s lost it, if he ever had it.” 

Ben shakes his head. “No, man, that’s gotta be the minority! People are obsessed with your stuff, and they’re not wrong to be. My assistant Devi is always reading your books, she can’t get enough of them,” he says, smiling. “Not to mention, me. I don’t get a lot of time to read, because I’m usually working but I’ve got yours. _The Attic Room _was just unputdownable. I read it on a long-haul flight, because I don’t sleep much on planes.”

Bill smiles, a bit self-conscious, but grateful. “Thanks, man. Except f-for the ending, right?”

He looks at Bill, confused, and Bill shakes his head. “It’s not – I won’t put you on the spot. Just something someone said to me a few days ago. Well, a lot of someones over the years.”

Ben is glad he didn’t ask him about it. He’s a great author, he writes really memorable characters and terrifying scenarios, but his endings don’t often live up to what he’s built up. “Aren’t you involved with the movie? You said they didn’t need you right now, right?”

Bill grimaces. “Yeah. The movie. B-bane of my existence.”

Ben breathes out. “Shit. That bad?”

Bill chuckles, but he suddenly seems very tired. “No, no it’s not _b-bad. _We’ve got a great director, and the cast is great, m-my wife…” He trails off, and picks up again. “I m-mean, I’m hoping I’m doing a good job adapting it, I’m not even a s-screenwriter, I’m not s-sure why I thought this would be a good idea.”

“I’m sure it’s better than you think,” Ben says, more to be comforting than really knowing that’s true.

Bill laughs, ruefully. “I don’t know.”

He shakes his head and looks at Ben sidelong. “Actually, you wanna know what’s so b-bad about it?”

Ben nods, curious now. “What?”

Bill lies back against the tree trunk and takes a breath, looking up at the canopy. “I don’t have an ending. I mean, I do, b-but I know that people hate the b-book one. I don’t know how anyone w-wants me to end it.” He laughs, wheezily. “Fuck.”

Ben takes a moment, then ends up saying what’s on his mind anyway. He tries to say it nicely though. “I, uh, don’t really know much about film production, but isn’t yours being made like, now? Don’t you need a finished script?”

Bill shrugs. “Not totally,” he says, in an exhausted way. “Especially w-with adaptations. You just need to have enough to convince p-people you know w-what you’re doing.” He laughs bitterly. 

Ben sighs. “I see.”

Bill looks at him. “Why do you think that p-people don’t like m-my endings? What didn’t you like?”

Ben hedges. “I wouldn’t say that – I mean I didn’t – “

Bill gives him an unimpressed look. “C’mon man, I’m not going to hold it against you p-personally. I just trust you to b-be honest without b-being a dick ,” he says.

Ben grins a little. “That being why you’re not asking Richie?”

Bill grins, and nods. “He wants it too much.”

Ben chuckles. “Alright – I think it’s that you have such good set-ups, and such _genuinely _great characters. Adelaide is so fully realised, and she’s not cliché, and you wrote her with more sensitivity than a lot of – male, I guess - writers would for a female character.”

Bill nods, listening intently. “I started writing her when I was f-first dating Audra. I don’t want to be _t-that guy _but having her in my life made me b-better at…writing women, I guess. Not that I t-think I was – t-terrible – before, but – I would t-talk about Adelaide, and Audra would challenge me, give me t-things to consider.”

“Sounds like she was good for you,” Ben smiles, can’t help feeling a little jealous. High school never really leaves, does it? Here he is, jealous of Bill again. In goddamn Derry. He’s not exactly jealous of him and Audra, because he knows very little about her, just that she’s pretty, she’s been in things for the last few years and she’s somewhat of a household name. It’s more like – the intimacy of that, sharing your work with someone, someone who makes you better – he could go on dates, he could probably find someone to marry pretty easily, but you can’t just _buy _or _set-up _a relationship like that. And anything else wouldn’t really be worth it. 

“Yeah,” Bill says quietly, looking down at the notebook. He sounds somewhat unconvinced. Ben really would like to ask more, but he decides against it. He gets back on track.

“So…you’ve got so much good stuff going on – I guess sometimes, from a total lay person’s point-of-view –“ Ben prevaricates, before Bill shoots him a look. “Ok, ok, you just pull shit out of left field sometimes! And I think you could write an ending that Adelaide’s character deserves,” Ben says defensively, and wonders if he was too harsh.

Bill looks at him, surprised. “Well, t-tell me how you really feel, Ben.”

“You asked –“ Ben starts protesting, then notices Bill is grinning.

He sighs and shakes his head. “Not cool, Bill.”

Bill chuckles. “No, I’m s-sorry. I genuinely appreciate t-the help, I’ll t-take every bit I can get right now,” he says, and looks down, and then up. “I knew I could t-trust you with it, you know? You were always a good friend, Ben, and I – I m-missed you, after we fell out of contact. It’s – really good to see you looking so well.” He says it in the same genuine way he always used to, and Ben feels a sudden flash of guilt, like he used to have when Bill was particularly kind to him back in the day. _Sorry. Sorry I’m pathetically and unshiftably in love with your girlfriend. Even though I didn’t mean to be. Even though we all became friends at the same time, and she was friends with both of us before she became Your Girlfriend, and she’s still my friend now but it’s not the same. _

It’s ridiculous, because it’s been decades and none of them are dating each other anymore, and he’s not exactly planning to make any kind of move on Bev. Who is married.

He smiles at Bill. “Thanks, Bill. I really missed you too, actually,” he realises. Not that he’d cared less about Bill, but he’d never really thought about if he missed him. He’d been busy enough not to have to think about that, mostly – with one obvious exception.

Bill chuckles. “Glad t-to hear it,” he says, jokingly.

Ben looks at him. “No, seriously. You were a really good friend to me, then. Whenever that old psycho Orlovsky was being sadistic, whenever Bowers’ gang was on the warpath, even…goddamn Gretta Keene. You were there for me…meant a lot.”

Bill smiles genuinely, a little sadly. “I wish you hadn’t had t-to deal with t-that shit, t-though. Wish none of us had.”

“No, it wasn’t…fair.” Ben nods heavily, feeling a surge of affection for him. He turns a page and instantly feels that childish guilt, stomach twisting. It’s a page of studies of Bev – her hair like a lit match, a mix of warm watercolour shades from yellow-gold to red. He looks at them for a moment, and then turns the page quickly. The next page has a big stain disfiguring whatever used to be beneath it, and it doesn’t seem to be from the forest dirt or rainwater seepage. A memory is poking through.

“What happened here again? I feel like I almost remember?” Ben asks, passing it over to Bill.

He looks surprised, then grimaces with the memory. “Oh right, this. S-speaking of Gretta…I think it was like, tenth grade? I think s-she knocked a can of Diet Coke onto it, when s-she s-saw what I was drawing. _Accidentally_, you know.”

Ben breathes out. “Man, she was a real dick, wasn’t she?”

Bill laughs, surprised. “She really _was, _Ben. I h-hope she’s miserable. She’d actually deserve it.”

Ben remembers earlier that day suddenly. “Actually, I saw her this morning – at the Shop-N-Save with Bev. She pounced on us while we were shopping.”

“No!” Bill gasps. He smiles wickedly. “W-what’s she like now?”

Ben allows himself a smirk at the memory. “Let’s just say…time has not been kind.”

Bill laughs heartily. “W-well that’s the best n-news I’ve heard since I got back to this shitheel town,” he says, with great schadenfreude. He smirks at Ben, quirking an eyebrow. “Did she recognise you?”

Ben grins more, and shakes his head. “Not one bit,” he says, and pauses, remembering the moment. “_And _I’m pretty sure she tried to hit on me.”

Bill makes a disgusted face but laughs, sounding both horrified and impressed. “_That’s _gotta b-be kind of victorious.”

Ben shrugs. “I don’t know, it was kind of weird,” he says, and thinks about it. “It was pretty great to be like, hey, remember when you said I’d die a fat virgin? And just – the look on her face, God. _That _was satisfying.”

Bill laughs incredulously. “You didn’t! _Amazing_, Ben_._” He suddenly looks a little wistful, again. “_Fuck. _I forgot she said t-that. Goddamn_ bitch_,” he says, and he sounds so angry for a moment.

“You made it better, though. Remember?” Ben says, suddenly feeling another wave of affection and stale guilt. 

Bill looks at him, with the same genuine empathy but a little surprise. “Yeah, I…I remember now,”

_He should have been paying attention to where he was going, then he might have seen her first. Most boys would be embarrassed to admit that they would double back to avoid a mean girl, but Ben was not most boys. The thing was, he should’ve been able to deal with anything a bully could throw at him now – being around real terror, real danger, the threat of really actually possibly dying in the cold and dirty darkness of the sewers, violently, at the hands of a serial killer – that should mean that he doesn’t even sweat what some kids say about him. Maybe he’s stronger now, but it still gets to him. _ _He’s still afraid of them. It’s easier when he’s around his friends, but they can’t be with him everywhere, all the time. _

_He is busy looking for something in his bag, listening to his headphones, walking around the side of the school, holding his notebook in one hand. He feels someone tug his headphones off harshly, and his stomach sinks. Richie does it sometimes, but it’s not aggressive, he’s just boisterous._

_Gretta Keene steps into his line of sight, flanked by two of her bitchy friends, Kristy and Jenna. _

_His music is too loud and it’s still playing out of his earphones. _

_“Watcha listening to, Winnie_ _?” Gretta asks, falsely nice with an ironic giggle in her voice. _

_He tries not to react immediately. She’s recently decided his new nickname is Winnie, because in her words, he’s “fat, eats a lot, and has very little brain”. He hates her only slightly less than the psychotic, hate-filled redneck teen that teamed up with a serial killer and tried to murder him and his friends two years earlier. _

_“Don’t you have something better to do?” he asks, attempting to seem unfazed._

_She smirks. “Oh but I love hanging out with you, Winnie. You always have the _coolest_ music,” she replies, and her friends titter. “What _is _that?”_

_Of course this is when the chorus kicks in and he scolds himself for listening to it so loud. _

_“Aw, baby don’t hurt me, no more!” Kristy says, pouting at him as Gretta and Jenna screech with laughter. Jenna has a laugh like a seagull and it sounds ridiculous. _

_“You wanna know what love is Ben?” Gretta says, ramping up, eyes glittering maliciously under thick smudgy eyeliner. Ben wants to leave but somehow he can’t. He’s frozen. “Well, it’s sort of like how you feel about cake, except that it’s something normal people feel for each other.”_

_The girls screech with laughter, wiping their eyes and doubling over with mirth. Ben’s not sure if he believes in God – his parents aren’t strictly religious, but he’s also had interesting conversations with Stan about it many times – but he would sign pretty much anything away to any higher power if he can just make it through this interaction without showing them how much they’re getting to him. Or crying. God, please let him not cry in front of them._

_Gretta smirks cruelly. “No, actually I get it. This song is so fun,” she says, laughing meanly. She pouts. “Do you think about her when you listen to it? Your tragically obvious crush with the orangutan hair.” _

_He tries to turn, suddenly unfreezing, but they block his path. He finds the stop button finally, and his headphones go mercifully quiet. _

_“Aw, did we upset you, Winnie?” Jenna asks, pouting. “Isn’t she dating your friend, anyway? He’s a lot better looking than you, even with the s-s-s-stutter,” she says, doing a cruel impression of Bill. He feels a flush of righteous anger. _

_“Aw babe,” Kristy adds, sniggering. “You know she doesn’t go for chubsters anyway, right?” _

_Gretta cackles, her face a mask of malicious glee, and smirks at Kristy, and then back at him. “I mean, she’s definitely a skank, but even she’s gotta have standards. Well, some,” she says, tittering through the sentence before cracking up with all of them. _

_“She’s never going to touch your twinkie, Winnie,” Jenna stage-whispers, like she’s telling him a secret. The girls scream with laughter, like this is the first joke they’ve ever heard._

_His face burns with rage and humiliation. He has to get out of here. He hears himself say it before he even realises he’s really doing it. “Go to hell, Gretta! One day you won’t be able to hide how empty and fucking pathetic you are!” _

_The smiles slip just for a moment. Gretta’s eyes narrow dangerously, then she laughs. “Aw, Winnie’s on the defense, pow!” She looks him right in the eyes, smirking. “At least I’m not going to die a lonely, fat virgin, Hanscom. Now, _that, _would be pathetic,” she says, voice absolutely drenched in venom and her harpies explode with laughter._

_He doesn’t even think, he just pushes past them. His vision blurs as he runs, trying to find somewhere quiet and alone. He doesn’t want to be around any of the other kids. He doesn’t even know who he wants to be around right now. Maybe he should just go home – but Mom will be home. What’s she going to say? The thought of trying to recount what Gretta had said, to her, makes him feel a hot wave of shame and nausea in his stomach. _

_Not looking where he’s going, again, he bumps into someone as he’s coming around the back entrance of the school. There isn’t anyone else around, but he feels a jolt of fear, and wonders if this day can get worse. _

_Stepping back, he realises it’s Bill – which is both better, in that he’s a friend, and way, way worse, in that he’s maybe the last one of his friends he wants to see right now, except maybe Bev. _

_“Ben – “ Bill says, and his expression instantly becomes concerned. “Are y-you ok? Wh-what happened?”_

_Ben doesn’t meet his eyes, because hasn’t he been humiliated enough today? “I’m fine –“ he starts. _

_“Y-you’re not ok, Ben, I’m w-worried about y-you!” Bill cuts him off, almost annoyed. Not at him, he realises a moment later. “W-who did this?” he says, and suddenly looks so worried than Ben feels the last of his resolve crumble, and he starts crying. Bill responds in a way that might be alien to other teenage boys, but isn’t to their little band of trauma-bonded weirdos, and pulls him into a hug. _

_Bill’s hugs are really good._ _ He lets Ben cry into his shoulder, and then, after Ben’s past it, he lets him go. _

_“Y-you don’t have to t-tell me, but wh-what…” Bill asks, very gently, trailing off. He looks sympathetic and sad, and there’s a glint of the righteous anger he sometimes gets in his eye. _

_Ben tells him, though he has a moment where he thinks he won’t be able to get the words she said out. It’s not like he goes to pieces publicly over being called fat, it’s pretty much background noise at this point, and Richie constantly makes fun of his taste in music (albeit never really in a cruel way), so that’s not what it was. _

_“F-fucking Gretta,” Bill says fiercely. “How f-fucking dare she t-talk to you like t-that.” _

_Ben shakes his head. “Or about you and Bev…why does she hate Bev so much? What did Bev ever do to her?” _

_Bill looks angrier now, but thankfully doesn’t run off after Gretta. That never ends well. “She’s j-jealous. Fucking j-jealous.” _

_Ben nods, and looks down. _

_“Y-you know she’s f-full of shit, right, B-ben?” Bill says, softer. _

_“I know,” he says, very small. _

_“L-look at me,” Bill says, in that strangely commanding way he has sometimes_ _. Ben does. Bill smiles a little, kindly, and puts his hands on Ben’s shoulders. “You’re gonna l-leave this shitty t-town and its dickheads b-behind soon enough. And t-then you’ll meet cool p-people who like p-poetry and b-building and p-pop music – “ Bill starts, and this surprises a small laugh out of Ben. Bill grins. “And t-they’re gonna love you. Like we love you.” _

_Ben smiles, cheered, but the thought is a little bittersweet. “As long as I still have you guys,” he says, wiping his eyes. _

_“Oh, always, B-ben. Always,” Bill says, beaming. He lets Ben go and looks around. “You w-wanna get outta here? I’m sick of school today. Wh-wherever you wanna go, w-we’ll go. I’ve been m-meaning to p-pick up my new books at the library, anyway. Or w-we can get milkshakes? Or b-both? Anything you w-want.”_

_Ben smiles, feeling actually happy. “Library first, milkshakes second? Mrs Johnson will kill us if she sees us bring drinks in.” _

_Bill grins. “Sounds good.”_

_Ben is suddenly extremely grateful that this is the friend he’d run into. He cares so much about the people he declares as his family, and Ben is still incredibly grateful to be a part of that. It’d be easier, maybe, if he was the Duckie to Bev’s Andie and Bill’s Blaine, at least less painful. Life is not as simple as a John Hughes movie_ _, unfortunately, because Bill isn’t some snotty rich kid and he fully understands why Bev loves him. Ben loves him too, although not in the same way. He loves them all though, he can’t help it. It’s more like if Duckie and Blaine were also best friends, and Duckie never told her how he felt out of respect for both of them. Out of fear for the loss of what they already have, the three of them. But, that would probably be a pretty depressing teen movie._

“And look at you! You d-did exactly w-what I said you’d do, right?” Bill says, smiling in a reminiscence.

Ben chuckles, slightly awkward. He _had _met cool people in college but he also hadn’t gotten a girlfriend until he was nineteen. “Yeah, you were right. Whole other world outside of here.”

Bill chuckles too. “Yep.”

Bill’s phone goes, and he pulls it out of his pocket. He looks conflicted, and his finger hovers over it, like he’s going to answer it. Then he turns it face down on the top of the notebook.

Ben doesn’t ask, but Bill sees his expression anyway. “I – M-my wife. Audra. I’ll call her b-back,” he says, sounding slightly guilty.

Ben nods, trying not to look judgemental. It’s honestly none of his business what problems Bill is having with his marriage, but it kind of makes him sad. From what he’s heard, Stan might have had the healthiest one and even that seems to be over.

He hopes Bev’s is happy. Yet somehow, he can’t quite convince himself it is. But he’s never been objective where she’s concerned.

Bill looks at him, somewhat oddly. “You dating anyone now?”

Ben shakes his head. “Work is – I put in a lot of hours, because the company needs the work done. Easier without disappointing someone.”

Bill nods, contemplatively. “You’ve got t-that right, Ben,” he says, decidedly a little bitter. Ben wants to ask him about it, but decides against it.

***

Mike drives through town, to pick up some last-minute things for dinner. Bill’s agreed to cook, if he gets help. Disbelief had been expressed in his ability to cook, and he’d informed them that he cooked more often than Audra did, on account of being home more often.

He knows these streets inside out, because he knows this town almost inside out. It’s one of the benefits (or maybe not) of living here so long. It’s like he knew it so well his memories became sort of dormant, buried under all of the boring day-to-day memories and things he has to remember. But everyone being back has reawakened memories attached to these streets, these buildings, things he thought he’d forgotten, things he’d buried.

There used to be a record store on the corner here, where Richie would spend hours looking through their records and cassettes. He and Bev used to go with him sometimes, and laugh about the cover art of different records. He’d give Richie a lift home after, and they’d listen to whatever new cassette he’d bought, and sing along if they knew the song. Bev and Richie would squeeze in the front seat, and sometimes Richie would stick his head out the window, like an excited dog. 

The library always makes him think of Ben, and Bill. He’s always reminded of Eddie when he goes past the pharmacy, and the place where the comic book store used to be. Eddie and Richie, who was in there a lot with him, getting new comics, trading old ones with Eddie. Eddie had bought Mike his first comic – _Xmen, _he remembers, because even though he didn’t know any of the characters and storylines, he’d gotten sucked into one because he felt for how even though they regularly seemed to be saving the world and helping people, those people still kind of feared them. 

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he waits at the lights. He’s playing Hozier, because it was already in the player, but it’s such a relaxing album he doesn’t mind.

As Hozier sings about rolling eyes and tired sighs and innocence dying screaming, he gets a shiver and his gaze falls on the synagogue. He doesn’t mean to think of it, because usually he doesn’t. But then he never usually pays much attention to the building anyway. Maybe it’s the song.

_“Honey, you’re familiar, like my mirror years ago…” _Hozier sings gently, as Mike reminisces. 

_Mike doesn’t really go to parties a lot, but this one is fun. They’ve been going to more things like this recently though, maybe because junior year has been different. _

_The new coach of the football team – a younger guy, that they got in after they finally fired Orlovsky – saw him playing an informal game of baseball with his friends, and begged him to join the school’s terrible team. Which he had been going to turn down, because between school and the farm he didn’t have time, but Ernie had been thrilled about it and had lightened his workload just to allow him to do it. They’d seemed so proud. So he joined, even though he’d never really got along with some of these jock kids. They weren’t all bad, but some of them had been terrible to him – but apparently if you could win for them, they had convenient amnesia_ _ about ever hating you. _

_Bev had also been going through some kind of strangely similar thing. Before, every girl had seemed to think like Gretta, and Bev hadn’t been interested in befriending any of them. I have friends already, she’d say. _

_But then Eddie had started dating pretty, somewhat popular Carrie Jennings, and Bev had become friendly with her in school. Suddenly she became friendly with Carrie’s friends, who hated Gretta and her friends – they seemed to look at her in awe, like she was cool and grown up, maybe because she smoked, maybe because of the nasty rumours that Gretta used to spread, maybe because she had a boyfriend. And they were popular kids, or friends with the popular kids, and Carrie had convinced her to try out for cheer. _

_*_

_They’d sat up one night at home, in Bev’s room, before they’d accepted the idea of trying out for their various extracurriculars. They both knew that it was several different types of crazy, and yet they couldn’t stop turning it over in their minds. _

_“Pro: it would be good for your college application,” Bev said, looking at him. _

_He shook his head, smiling tiredly. “Moot point. Unlikely I’m going. But you could put it on yours?” _

_Bev frowned. “Nope, I’m with you. Un-fucking-likely.” _

_Mike frowned too, and gave her an understanding look. “Maybe…you could get a scholarship?” _

_Bev snorted a laugh. “Yep, with my stellar grades.” _

_Mike wanted to say something more, but she shook her head. “Anyway, not the point. Find a pro.”_

_He thought. “Exercise?”_

_She laughed again. “Weak sauce, Mikey.” _

_He grinned. “Sorry.” _

_“Con: this might be a long-form way to humiliate us, and pull a _Carrie _on us at a social event,” Bev continued darkly._

_Mike nodded. “The girl asking you to try out is called Carrie, even, so.” He sighed. “Con: why do we want to go into the belly of the beast that mocked us for years, even if they’re not planning to Carrie_ _ us?”_

_Bev sighed. “I know. Why forgive them? Smart move would be to not, right?” _

_“Right. Richie would be happier with it.”_

_Bev raised her eyebrows. “He might be being obnoxious but he’s not wrong, either.” _

_Richie had not been a fan of the idea, calling it a betrayal of everything they stood for. Everyone else had been less bothered, but Eddie had tried to warn him about CTE and injuries that professional footballers got. _

_“True,” Mike said slowly. He looked at her. “Pro: this might be an opportunity to see what life outside of our bubble looks like. You know I love the bubble. But it makes us intense sometimes, and cuts us off from people. We’re gonna need to know how to do this in like, less than two years.”_

_Bev nodded, slowly, and sighed. She lay back against the wall next to her bed. “I just – “ she started. “I want not to trust this. I want to be smarter than this. I want the seven of us to be enough,” she continued, and then in a softer voice. “But I – God, I want to be more than just the lucky seven sometimes.” She looked at him, sadly, and he looked back. “I love you guys, so much. But it would be nice to – not be defined by what happened to us. I want to believe that’s what this is. Isn’t that pathetic?” she asked, very small. _

_He took her hand and squeezed it. “Nope. Same thing.” They bowed their foreheads together. With anyone else, this might be weird, but from almost the day he met her he’d felt like she was the sister he was missing. Or the one he never got to have. _

_ “Everyone’s excited for me to do this. You should’ve seen Ernie and Miriam’s faces when I told them.”_

_Bev looked at him. “But are you excited for it?” _

_He nodded, and smiled. “I think so. Have we decided?” _

_She smiled. “Think so. Promise to bring me a towel if I end up drenched in pigs blood?” _

_He grinned. “Absolutely, and I expect the same of you.”_

_*_

_He and Bev weren’t interested in going to parties if they couldn’t invite all their friends, but their new athletic ones seemed to have a more-the-merrier-approach to party sizes, and didn’t seem to care. _

_The party is in full swing, and it’s late on a Saturday night, which means any moment there could be sirens and running, but for now Mike is having a good time. He’s managed to rope Stan, Ben and Richie into dancing – figuring it would stop Richie annoying Eddie, who was off talking with Carrie and a friend of hers, and get Stan and Ben out of their tendency to isolate themselves from the party. Bev and Bill are somewhere else – the last place he saw them was outside, smoking, but who knows._

_“Everybody jump!” one of his teammates drunkenly yell-sings along. Everybody jumps. Everybody is a bit drunk. _

_“Why are we jumping?” Ben asks, laughing. _

_“Because that’s what we’ve been commanded,” Richie replies, like this is obvious. _

_“You gotta obey the song, man,” Mike says, laughing too. “Right, Stan?” _

_Stan rolls his eyes, but can’t hide his grin. “This song is dumb. We’re dumb.” _

_Richie gasps. “Don’t disrespect us or House of Pain like that, Staniel!” _

_Mike catches Stan’s eye, and grins. Stan grins back, his particular, can-you-believe-Richie smirk. He has different smiles – when he’s retorting to something Richie’s said, when Bev gets him to put his book down, when they’re all watching a movie and something startles a laugh out of him, the one he gets when he’s birdwatching and he sees something he hasn’t before. That’s maybe his favourite one, because it usually only comes out when there aren’t a lot of people around, and it seems like the purest distillation of his joy. _

_Mike doesn’t say this any of this, though, because he’s aware that it’s probably a bit weird to be cataloguing your friend’s different smiles. It’s not like he’s planning to do anything with the knowledge. He just wants to know how to bring them out. _

_“Are all these songs about jumping?” Stan asks long-sufferingly. “I swear this is the same song.” _

_Ben shrugs. _

_“You’re a fucking heathen, Stan my man! How have you been taking piano lessons this long and you still can’t differentiate music!” Richie says dramatically, over the music._

_“I’ll differentiate between songs I like, Richie – whoa –“ Stan says, and for a moment looks like he’s going to fall. Mike moves forward automatically, but he steadies himself._

_Now that he thinks about it, Stan does look kind of dizzy. _

_“You good? Need to barf? As long as you don’t get me, I say go anywhere, my man,” Richie says, jokily but there’s an alertness in his eyes that wasn’t there before._

_Stan holds up a hand and then flips him off. _

_“He’s fine, then,” Richie says, grinning. _

_“Are you ok?” Mike asks him, and he looks unfocused. Stan looks back at Mike._

_“Yeah – just a bit, a bit dizzy,” he says. _

_“Let’s get some air then,” Mike says kindly, and Stan smiles gratefully. It’s another one that he likes. _

_Richie and Ben offer to come, but he knows a song they like has just started playing. He tells them it’s fine, and Stan says not to make a fuss. He still puts an arm around him to hold him steady while they go outside._

_It is good to feel the air on his face. He didn’t realise how drunk he felt until he was outside. _

_Stan leans back against the side of the house, and closes his eyes. _

_“I didn’t think you’d drunk so much,” Mike says. “I didn’t think I had.” _

_Stan groans. “No, I didn’t either.” He opens his eyes, and looks at Mike, next to him. “I’m fine, really. I’m just a bit woozy.”_

_“Do you want to go home?” Mike asks, kindly. _

_“Yeah, I think so,” Stan says. _

_“I’ll take you,” Mike says, and Stan grins. _

_“You’re drunk too! You can’t drive!” he says, incredulous. _

_Mike grins. “I’ll walk with you, and then I’ll sober up and come back here. Or Bill can drive Bev and I back. She knows where the keys are hidden anyway.”_

_Stan looks at him deeply for a moment, and Mike wonders what he’s thinking. He’s always wondering that. “Can you tell them bye from me, when you get back?” he asks. _

_Mike nods. “I can.”_

_Stan smiles slowly. “Thanks, Mike.”_

_*_

_They’re only supposed to be walking back to Stan’s house. His mom will be asleep, but he has a way of sneaking in. _

_They walk past the synagogue, when Stan stops and stares at it. _

_Mike stops. “What is it?” _

_Stan looks at him. “Can I show you something?” _

_Mike looks at the synagogue and back. “Now? Isn’t it locked?” _

_Stan grins, loose and drunk. “Yeah, but I know where he hides the key.”_

_“What if he’s there?” Mike says. He doesn’t like the idea of running into Rabbi Uris while they’re both drunk. He thinks little enough of Mike when he’s polite and sober. _

_Stan shakes his head. “One, it’s really late. And two, he’s out of town anyway. It won’t take long. Come on, Mikey_ _,” he says, warmly, tugging on his arm. _

_Mike doesn’t think this is a good idea. But Stan is never this open – he’s a good friend in other ways, he’s not loud, he has a great sense of humour and a greater sense of anger on your behalf. But he’s not often loose like this. Worry-free. Stan smiles, and it’s this unusual, easy warmth. Mike is weak, and he’s too drunk not to say yes to that. _

_The synagogue looks pretty much how he’d expected inside. It’s much like the Baptist church in town that he’s been into once or twice. He looks around though, and has a jolt of, oh, this is a part of my friend’s life. This is a big part of his life, and I’m just now really seeing it. _

_It’s not like it’s any kind of problem, but it feels strange. He looks over at the podium. “Is that where your infamous Bar Mitzvah took place?” he says, with a slow smile. _

_It’s dark, but Mike can tell Stan’s reddening. Stan laughs anyway. “That is where I declared myself a fucking loser in front of the whole synagogue, yes. Still living that down. Three years later.” _

_Mike laughs. “Well I’m sure you inspired any younger Jewish children in attendance.” _

_Stan laughs, lightly. “Yes, at least they think I’m a hero.”_

_“So what are we looking for?” Mike asks, and Stan looks at him, cocks his head to one side a bit. Birdlike behaviour. Learned trait, maybe. Mike loves to see it. _

_He holds a hand out, something almost uncertain about it. “Come with me,” he says, and Mike lets himself be led. He follows Stan upstairs, and onto the balcony overlooking the room. He doesn’t drop Stan’s hand. Stan doesn’t let go. _

_“This is my favourite part,” Stan says, half-whispering. “I used to like watching the people at services from here. When I was small enough that I could see them, but they couldn’t see me. It was like – being close to God.” He looks almost sad. He crouches low next to the bannister, and Mike crouches with him. _

_Mike wonders why he wanted him to see this, right now, but at the same time there’s something very bubbly in his chest about being shown something so personal. He knows Stan had cared more about it once, or maybe believed it better before. Hard to go what through they did and stay the same. _

_“I wanted to stop coming here after _he _broke in_, _when he wanted to scare me,” Stan says, and his voice shakes a little. Mike remembers well, and shudders. He squeezes Stan’s hand. _

_“I’m so sorry,” is all he can say, but he wishes he could say, I wish I could have protected you from that. I’d protect you from anything if you’d let me. _

_Stan looks at him oddly again, a deep, long look. “When I came back, I came up here. It made me feel safe, and invisible, you know? If I stayed here, at this level, I could watch but I could be hidden. Safe,” he says, eyes wide. It’s like he’s trying to say something, like he’s trying to hint at something_ _, but Mike’s brain is soggy with drunkenness. _

_Mike doesn’t know what to say, but he doesn’t look away. _

_“Mike,” Stan whispers, and it’s unbearably pained. His eyes flit away, down, back, up. Flighty. Learned behaviour. “It’s like – it’s like that with you. Safe_ _,” he says, and if Mike wasn’t right in front of him he wouldn’t be able to hear him at all. They’re very close. Mike’s brain is buzzing. His skin is buzzing. _

_“Oh,” Mike says, softly, and smiles. Stan’s worried wide eyes suddenly look much more at ease, and he smiles. Mike suddenly realises which one this is. It’s that rare one, the almost-unobserved one, when he’s seen a bird he doesn’t have. The pure joy of him._

_“I –“ he starts, and doesn’t finish, because Stan moves forward and presses a kiss to his lips. It’s not long, but it’s nice. It’s neither’s first kiss. It still might be Mike’s favourite, because of the way his lips tingle when they break apart a moment later. _

_He looks at Stan. Stan looks wide-eyed and wild, skittish. Some of his curls have fallen into his face. Mike smiles at him, and he feels full of light. He holds a hand out – tentatively, Stan’s always told him, with birdwatching it’s important to show you’re not a threat to what you’re looking for. He brushes a curl behind Stan’s ear and leaves his hand there. Stan smiles slowly, nuzzling into the touch._

_Then suddenly, they hear voices. Stan pulls back, finger to his lips, barely breathing. Mike is silent, trying to process what’s changed. They’re hidden behind the bannister, and it’s dark, but they look out at the room through the slats in the bannister and they can’t see anything. Stan squints, having not brought his glasses to the party. _

_But Mike knows they both recognise the voice. Or one of them. _

_Mike sees Rabbi Uris, walking into the synagogue with a brunette woman. Younger than him. Certainly not Andrea Uris. _

_Mike wants to say something – this isn’t what it looks like, but he’s frozen. Stan looks confused. “That’s – she does work for him. Here,” he says, in the barest, most breathless whisper. He takes Mike’s hand again, anxiously, without tearing his eyes away. _

_They don’t hear him anyway. They don’t even look up. They’re laughing. Mike’s never heard the Rabbi laugh. He didn’t think it was possible. _

_He kisses her, and she kisses him back and Mike can’t pretend it isn’t what it looks like anymore. Stan grips his hand tightly, and his whole body freezes up. He curls up behind the banister, turning away as quietly as possible. He holds onto Mike’s hand. _

_After what is either three hours or ten minutes, the Rabbi seems to get whatever he’d come to his office for, and he and the woman leave. They stay hidden for a lot longer._

_When they finally get outside, Stan is shaking. Whether it’s anger or shock, Mike doesn’t know. He won’t quite make eye contact with Mike, and Mike’s heart sinks. It had to be that. It had to happen tonight. He’s seen this look in Stan before, he can only take so much at a time. This is too much. That made it too much. _

_“Stan,” he says, quietly but meaningfully. “Look at me.” _

_Stan looks at him, finally, still kind of flighty and wild-eyed. What Mike wouldn’t give to mirror Stan’s earlier action, just now, to comfort him. “Yeah?” he says, and his voice is higher than it even it is normally. _

_He wants to put his hand out, to steady him, to comfort him. But he thinks better of it. “What do you need?” he says, sympathetically. “I promise I’ll understand anything,” he says, and smiles a little. A little is all he can manage. “I won’t be mad at you. Just be honest.”_

_Stan is breathing heavily. His eyes flick to the synagogue and back. He looks pained. He takes Mike’s hand, and presses a kiss to his knuckles. It’s dark, and late, but Mike feels a strange thrill of both fear and excitement. “I need – I need this to stay here. In the safe place. I just –“ he breaks off desperately, looking so anxious and sick, that Mike worries he’s going to start crying, so he just nods understandingly. He looks at Stan. _

_“It’s ok. We can leave it there. We’re still friends, ok?” he says, as warmly as possible. Stan blinks, then throws his arms around him. _

_He buries his face in Mike’s shoulder for a moment, and then says, in a cracked, quiet voice, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” _

_“It’s ok,” Mike assures him. “It’ll all be ok.” _

The lights turn green, and Mike shakes himself and drives toward the supermarket, feeling frazzled nonetheless.

***

Mike had come back with the few things he’d agreed to pick up from the shops seeming a bit spacey. Bev had asked him if he was ok, and he’d waved her concerns off, saying he was just tired. She’d told him to relax, she’d help Bill with dinner instead of him.

Bev lets herself into the kitchen, where Bill is prepping vegetables. 

“You need a sous-chef?” she asks.

He smiles, like he’s surprised, but nods. “Love one, if you can b-bear doing another meal today.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “I asked you, it’s fine.”

He chuckles and moves aside to let her work beside him. “Can you chop those carrots?” he asks, and passes her the chopping board.

She nods, and gets to work.

“It’s weird, being in this kitchen so much today. I was never in here as a kid, y’know?” she says to him, bemusedly.

Bill nods, grinning. “If I remember correctly, S-Stan’s mom was weird around you. B-both you and Mike, really, but I feel like she was always k-keeping an eye on you.”

Bev giggles, pouring the chopped carrots into a bowl. “She wasn’t mean, y’know, like other people used to be. Like Mrs K. She just seemed a bit uncomfortable with having me around. And I think when she realised that I only had eyes for you, and didn’t have any designs on her son she was a lot less stressed, and she didn’t seem to mind us hanging out.”

Bill chuckles. “Yeah, she w-wasn’t so bad. You know, I knew her f-for almost as f-far back as I can remember – our parents were f-friends, because they lived close to us. That’s how I met Stan,” he says, and grins, a little wistfully. “He was so small, and so _quiet, _and it was weird, b-but he never made fun of my stutter, so I thought he must be a good f-friend.”

Bev watches his face as he says this, smiling. She’s remembering how she used to like to piece together their friendships before it was the seven of them, during the time when she vaguely knew the four of them but only from a distance. When she used to wonder how four boys who were so different had ended up friends. They were her best friends, but they’d met at thirteen. She didn’t know what it was like to have friendships from that young. She liked to hear their stories.

“I’m glad you did. You were right,” she agrees.

He nods. “I was. Can’t imagine the club w-without him,” he says, and the grater he’s using slips out of his hands and falls over on the counter.

She instinctively reaches over to comfort him. He looks at her gratefully, quiet. They stay like that for a moment, then he blinks and looks away. “Damn onions,” he says, with an attempt at humour.

He is definitely working on the onions, but she knows that’s not the only reason he’s welling up.

She doesn’t comment on it, and they work on the meal in companionable silence for a few minutes.

“It was…f-funny seeing that old photo from P-Prom before, huh?” he says, a little too casually.

“Oh yeah?” she asks, nonchalant. 

“Just –“ he stirs the onion into the sauce he’s making on the stovetop. “Brings back some memories.”

She grins. That’s an understatement. “Good, I hope.”

“Definitely good,” he says, with a grin in his voice.

“It was a good night,” she says, reminiscing. “Close to the perfect John Hughes movie moment as you can get, I’d say.”

He looks over at her. “I w-wanted it to be.”

“It was,” she says, with a nostalgic smile. “Remember –“

“Yes,” he answers, not even having to ask. She laughs.

“Remember how we climbed on that b-bit of roof outside your window, and watched the sunrise?” he asks, and it’s definitely a bit wistful.

She keeps chopping. “Yeah, that was…” she says, and wonders what to say about it. It was very emotional, or she remembers it that way. At the time, they were content and happy, snuggled together under the duvet they’d snuck out onto the roof. But they were both very aware – that she had her scholarship to NYU, and he’d be going out to Northwestern in Chicago. Barring one of them winning the lottery and being able to afford the two-hour flight regularly, they knew it was unlikely they’d be able to see each other much with such a long drive, and trying to keep the relationship going might be near impossible. So they’d just snuggled up together and watched the sunrise.

“One of my b-best memories, actually,” Bill says, and she watches his shoulders as he stirs. He doesn’t look round at her this time, focusing on the food.

“Mine too,” she says. “I was so grateful Miriam and Ernie trusted us enough to have the run of the house that night.”

Bill chuckles, and his shoulders relax. “Yeah, I’ll say. Would have b-been awkward if they were there,” he says, and Bev laughs. “M-Mike was very nice to stay away, too. Where did he end up? Ben’s p-place?”

Bev stops chopping vegetables to think. “I don’t remember, actually. He helped Stan take Richie home, and I think Ben went with them. Maybe he did crash with Ben? I don’t know.”

Bill nods, over the sauce. She goes over to add the last lot of vegetables, and he stirs them. After a moment, he tastes it with a spoon. He smiles blissfully, and dips a clean teaspoon in and holds it out to her. “Taste this, it’s good,”

She sighs, but takes the spoon. “I forgot you used to do that, when we cooked together,” she says, but can’t help smiling at the memory.

“Then y-you remember I make great sauces,” Bill returns, grinning.

“Your mother made good sauces, and if it weren’t for her you’d know nothing,” she laughs.

He laughs, indignant. “Isn’t that all c-cooking? C’mon, try the sauce!”

“Alright, jeez,” she says, and tastes it. It reminds her of being sixteen, in the Denborough family kitchen, cooking a big meal for their friends, her and Bill working in tandem. It tastes like comfort and rain on kitchen windows and U2’s _One _on the radio. She opens her eyes. “God, I forgot how good this is,” and Bill smirks.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he says, and she smiles, feeling suddenly like she has to mess with him for that.

“It’s _great_, but you’re too afraid of salt,” she says, picking up the shaker.

He gives her a warning look. “D-don’t even try it, Marsh,”

She grins. “It’s great, it just needs sharpening –“ she says, trying to get the shaker over the pan. Bill runs defence, trying to grab the shaker off her, laughing. He doesn’t try to grab her arms, though, and she can’t tell him how grateful she is. She’s laughing, too, and then – almost at the exact same time – they remember that they’re very close, a little tangled up, and no longer sixteen year olds who are together.

Before they can say anything, the kitchen door opens, and they both turn. Bill is smiling a touch guiltily, and she supposes she is too. They weren’t really doing anything, but they’re old enough to admit that it wasn’t nothing either, especially to the casual observer.

Who happens to be Ben. He looks at them awkwardly for a moment, and attempts a casual expression. Bev feels a flash of guilt and can’t explain why. It’s not like it’s Tom that’s walked through the door. If it had been Tom, it would have been a hell of a lot worse than an awkward look. She got worse if he thought a waiter was flirting with her.

Ben is pretty much the opposite of what Tom is, as a person. It makes her heart hurt a bit.

“Uh, sorry to, uh, interrupt,” he says, lightly, but his eyes flick between them. “Mike just wanted me to ask when you think we’ll be serving up?”

“Not a p-problem, Ben,” Bill says, a touch too quickly and cheerily. “I’d, uh, say about ten?”

Ben nods. “Ok, good. Smells good,” he says, with a strange smile. A little strained. Why does just looking at him make her feel guilty right now? It’s not like they ever – is it just embarrassment? Embarrassment that one of their friends saw her messing around with Bill? Bill who is married, but for less than half the time she’s been. Maybe that’s it, but she’s somehow uneasily aware that she probably wouldn’t feel this way if Richie had come through the door, and not Ben.

For some reason, she calls out to Ben as he starts to leave. She doesn’t even know what to say, so she asks the first thing that comes to mind. “Did Mike crash at yours on prom night? I realised I don’t even know what you guys got up to after you left with Stan and Richie.”

Bill looks at her, surprised. Ben looks a little confused too, but answers, thinking. “Uh, it wasn’t that wild, from I remember. They dropped me off first, and then they continued on to take Richie back to Stan’s ‘cause he was basically passed out on our laps. I think I fell asleep reading,” he says, with a sheepish smile. “I should probably go tell the others dinner is soon,” he says, and does actually leave this time.

Bill raises an eyebrow at her. “All this talk of p-prom got you in a detective mood?”

She shakes her head, smiling. “I don’t know. Nostalgic, maybe.”

He smiles at her, and she remembers how much she loved his smile. A bit goofy at times, maybe, but full of warmth. A long time ago she used to wonder why he was the leader, why his three friends looked at him like sunflowers towards the sun, this skinny kid with his stutter – but then he’d smiled at her once and she’d realised how it felt to be in it.

She smiles back. He looks like he’s going to say something, and then his phone goes.

He pulls it out, presumably to silence it, but she can’t help recognising the contact photo, or the name on the screen. _Audra Phillips Denbrough, _although he’s only got her first name there. The little she sees of the photo is the two of them, her leaning on his shoulder smiling.

Bill definitely looks a little guilty now. “Uh, we’re about to eat. I’ll call her b-back.”

Bev nods. She’s not sure what to say to that. It’s not up to her whether he calls his wife back. She also can’t judge him for having a dysfunctional relationship, although she doesn’t think – she _hopes _– that his isn’t anywhere near as bad or for the same reasons as hers.

“So, should you get back to the sauce before it burns? That would be a _tragedy,_” she asks, and he swears and turns back to the sauce. It’s not burnt, yet.

***

Dinner is comfortable, again settling into a routine none of them expected to fall back into.

Everyone seems to be hanging around, talking. Someone’s put on music, but it’s the unobtrusive kind that people their age listen to at dinner parties. Which rules out Richie.

Stan kind of wishes they’d stay. Soon enough everyone will go back to the guesthouse and he’ll be here. By himself. In this house, with all of its silence and secrets.

He’s not being a part of it, right now, just watching the others talk from the doorway to the kitchen as he waits for the kettle to boil.

It goes off, and he turns toward the counter and goes to pour the hot water into his drink. When he turns back, Bill’s come up to the kitchen doorway. He’s smiling a little, but his eyes are concerned.

Part of him, a defensive part, wants to say _I can be alone, you know. I’m not constantly thinking about doing it again if you leave me on my own for two seconds. _But another part of him, a bigger part, is just thinking how glad he is to see him. Bill’s eyes have always shown great emotion, bad and good, and he’s never been good at hiding it.

“Look, I’ll understand if you just n-needed a break from all of us,” Bill starts, with a slow smile. They had some wine with dinner, but it’s nowhere near as messy-drunk as last night ended up being. Not that it was bad, though. “But you were kind of qu-quiet at dinner. D-did you hate the sauce?” he asks, and it’s not the question he really means – his eyes make that obvious – but Stan appreciates it nonetheless.

He smiles a little. “The sauce was great. Dinner was great. You and Bev did a really good job together, actually.”

Bill looks down, face a little red – either from the wine or something else – and smiles. “Yeah, I – guess we work well t-together.”

Stan’s not imagining it then, there is something going on there. They’re high-school exes, though, there’s bound to be some residual feelings. Given his own –

He steeps the tea, trying to get out of that mental cul-de-sac. He looks at Bill. “You want some tea?”

Bill nods. “Milk, one s-sugar, if y-you have any?”

Stan nods, and gets the little sugar container down from the shelf. He makes Bill’s tea quickly, and neither of them says anything for a moment.

Bill takes the tea, and speaks up. “Something’s on your m-mind, though?”

Stan looks at his tea, pours a little milk into it. “You won’t like it.”

“Stan, I can h-handle it,” Bill says, concerned. 

Stan looks at him. He has that look on his face, the convincing look. The one that said, _abandon all the instincts that have served you well thus far in life, and come with me into this sewer, or this old crackhouse, and put yourself in mortal danger, because I’m here and I won’t let anything happen to you. _It’s a very unfair look for a person to have. 

He swallows. “I found something, when I was going through Dad’s study before dinner. It was about – what happened. That summer.”

Bill stiffens, but he nods. “Can I – s-see it?”

Stan nods, grimly. They take their mugs and head out of the kitchen towards the study.

It’s weird being in his father’s study as an adult. He was never allowed in here as a child, it was his father’s private room. He knew not to go in, for fear of the consequences. His father wasn’t prone to wild rages, and only hit him once, when he was a lot younger. He actually apologised, which was rare. But there was something about his cold anger and disappointment that almost hurt more than a physical hit. Stan used to not try and provoke it, when he was younger. It got harder as he got older. He stopped caring whether he did. He feels like he’s breaking the rules even now, being in here, even though he’s forty years old and his father isn’t here to scold him. He can’t shake the feeling he’s going through his father’s secrets, one by one. He already knows the worst one – but what if it isn’t? What if there’s another one?

He goes over to the desk. There’s a small box there, with a lot of papers in it. He picks one up and hands it to Bill.

“I think…I think he was keeping articles about it. Everything related to what happened in 1989,” he says, and finds his voice is shaking a little. Just from thinking about it. He hates it.

Bill looks anxious, too, at least. He reads the article on top, face going ashen. He hands it back to Stan, and Stan has a look over it again. He’s already read it, but he can’t help but reread. 

_Derry Post, 19th September 1989_

** _SERIAL KIDNAPPER AND KILLER CAUGHT, KILLED IN DERRY, THANKS TO SEVEN SURVIVING CHILDREN_ **

_ Jeff Wainwright, Senior Crime Reporter _

_A sick, child-kidnapping menace that has stalked Derry’s streets for a year, maybe more, has finally been stopped thanks to the actions of two kidnapped children – and their five friends, who went into belly of the beast to save them. This was clearly an extremely dangerous and foolhardy course of action, but in this reporter’s opinion, one less monster on the streets is one less worry for your own children. _

_Robert ‘Bob’ Wayne Gray, whose age is still unknown but is estimated to have been around 40-50 years, is believed to have worked as a carnival clown previously, although there were no sightings reported of a clown walking around Derry proper. Reports from the site suggest he was living in the old sewer tunnels underneath a rundown house on Neibolt St, and that he stalked and kidnapped various children while dressed as a clown. According to the Derry Medical Examiner, he stood at nearly seven feet tall and had a bulky frame. _

_He is now considered to be solely responsible for the disappearances and assumed deaths of several town children over the last year, including Betty Ripsom, 13; Edward Corcoran, 13; George Denbrough, 7; and Patrick Hockstetter, 15, the latter of whom went missing only a month earlier. Another child, Henry Bowers, 15, has been apprehended and is believed to have been working with Gray. Police are reportedly looking into whether he can be charged as an adult due to the severity and gruesome nature of the crimes committed while working with Gray, including the murder of his father, Derry Police Officer Oscar Bowers._

He looks up and Bill’s eyes are watery, looking at another article from the box. “Wh-why did he k-keep t-t-this stuff?” he stutters out, worse than usual, and winces.

“I honestly…I don’t know,” Stan says, shakily, because he really doesn’t. “He never,” he starts, and his voice catches and he has to take a sip of his tea. “He didn’t ever want to talk about this with me. He asked me if I was alright, when it happened, and he said that I needed my faith more than ever. He said…God would be the answer, and then he never talked about it again. And all that time he was…keeping these?”

He’s shaking, now, actually shaking with anger or fear, or both. Bill gives him an empathetic look, and reaches over to put a hand on his shoulder. It is calming. It reminds him of the police station, the long wait, the way Bill had done that exact thing when he was cold and in shock and shaking.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, a little embarrassed.

“I’m a-always here f-f-for you,” he says, with deep feeling, and winces. “Sorry,” he says.

Stan looks at him. “Don’t be. It – it reminds me of you. Before.”

Bill smiles, eyes still a little haunted-looking, but his smile is genuine and warm and grateful. Stan remembers again why they followed him anywhere.

Bill looks down at the clippings. One is a picture of them leaving the station that a reporter took. Stan had hated it, after everything they’d been through, and then there’s someone shoving a camera in their faces? He doesn’t look happy in the photo, but none of them do, really.

“M-maybe he was m-more scared than you thought?” he muses. “Y-your Dad was like m-mine. They w-weren’t great at emotions. He couldn’t talk about G-g-g-“ Bill’s voice breaks and he doesn’t finish the sentence. Stan knows what he wasn’t going to say. He returns the favour by putting his arm around Bill’s shoulders.

Bill looks grateful. “I just m-mean…it could have b-been his w-way of understanding. Wh-what happened t-to us.”

Stan thinks on it for a moment, and something hot and upset bubbles up out of him. 

“I’m so – why didn’t he just talk to me? He made me feel like I had to pretend like it never happened, and that I was fine, and that I didn’t wake up screaming in the middle of the night sometimes thinking I was still in the sewer!” He says, and he’d started in a normal, if bitter tone, but had gathered volume and as anger he’d gone on.

Bill squeezes his shoulder, giving him a bitterly understanding look. “D-dads, huh? T-that was their solution t-to everything. Your d-dad…loved you, t-though. My d-dad…shut off, and it was n-never t-the same after…” he looks down. His tea is barely touched. “It w-was like he didn’t w-want to l-love either of us, after it. It’s w-why my p-parents broke up,” he says, with bite. “The happiest he ever w-was sending m-me off to college. Out of s-sight, out of m-mind. Like he did w-with G-g-georgie -” he says, and starts to cry.

Stan’s already got a hand on Bill’s back, so it’s easy to pull him into a hug. “I’m sure he does, in his own stunted, old-fashioned way,” he says quietly, as Bill cries into his shoulder. “But I’m so sorry he made you feel like he didn’t. Because – God, Bill you’re so loved. So much.” 

Bill hugs him tightly, and Stan is again reminded of that worst day of his life, at thirteen. They’d comforted each other like this then. He was glad that they hadn’t forgotten how to do it.

“I m-miss him, still, y-you know?” Bill says, voice heavy with tears and old grief. Stan knows he’s not talking about his Dad. “I th-thought I’d g-g-get over it one d-d-day, m-maybe, b-but –“ his words are mangled by the stutter and tears, but Stan still understands.

Stan just holds him, and he can feel that he’s crying too. Not that it takes much to set him off these days. There had been a solid period in his adulthood where he barely ever cried, and ever – since he – he’s been thinking a lot about things, and crying very easily.

“Small and maybe obvious therapy tip: you were never going to get over it. Something like that leaves a scar. He was your brother, and he was a sweet, kind kid who didn’t deserve to be in this shitty town, and he didn’t deserve what happened, and I’m so, so sorry that you’re still hurting,” he says, shakily, and he’s definitely crying now.

Bill straightens up, looking at him, red-eyed. “It’s n-not your f-fault. It’s almost the opposite, Stan. Y-you came in with m-me, even though you were t-terrified. Y-you did t-that for me, and y-you did t-that for him, and I w-will never stop b-being grateful for t-that.”

“Thanks Bill, although you remember how well that worked out for me,” he says, attempting dry humour when his throat is choked and his words are coming out wetly.

Bill makes a strange, aborted gesture, like he wants reach up and touch Stan’s face but has thought better of it. Stan doesn’t know whether to be glad or disappointed. Maybe he’s a bit of both. He’s not sure he could cope with that, but some childhood part of him would be thrilled. Well, he’s thinking childhood but the fact that he’s even thinking about this points to it being more than just a distant, nostalgic memory of feeling. 

“If I d-didn’t know how you got those little w-white scars I d-don’t think I’d even n-notice them. They’re so small n-now, they’re b-barely there,” Bill says, looking at him, but at the side of his face, kind of entranced. The bruises have long-since faded, but even remembering Bob Gray’s dirty, sharp fingernails digging into the sides of his face makes him want to throw up or take a shower or start drinking. He tries not to dwell on it.

Stan instinctively looks down at his arms, still bandaged under his long sleeves, then up again quickly. Bill can’t see the bandages, but he follows Stan’s eyes down and up, and looks suddenly very sad again. “I don’t w-want to make t-this uncomf-fortable, so I’ll j-just say it once m-more, b-but,” he starts, like it’s an effort, and he takes a breath. “I’m so glad you’re alive, Stan,” he says, and he doesn’t stutter once. 

Stan could cry. And he does, but he’s happy about it.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did make a reference to Carrie, and yes, I have decided that Stephen King's works exist in this AU with one exception, whichever that could be. 
> 
> As always, love to hear your thoughts! Or hmu @pantsaretherealheroes on tumblr :)


	5. It Was Never Quite Like This Before (Not One Of You Is The Same)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and it's back, it took me a very long time to get this out because it is the longest chapter yet and I'm willfully verbose!
> 
> if you're keeping up with this, you probably already know what you're in for but just in case here is a trigger warning for some references in this chapter to
> 
> \- physical abuse/domestic violence  
\- self-harm  
\- suicidal thought patterns/attempted suicide (that one is a given, but still)
> 
> big huge thanks to my brilliant beta @manycoloureddays who took on this monster while being busy with other things, literally what would i do without her <333

“You’re telling me you don’t watch Bojack Horseman?” Richie asks, incredulously.

Eddie glares at him. “I don’t have a lot of time for TV, ok? Also, isn’t that show a cartoon? Like, for kids?”

Richie makes a dismissive noise. “Eddie, it’s something you should _make time for. _And no, it’s pretty much like any drama about a depressed middle-aged man except it’s genuinely gutting, and the characters are a mix of animated people and talking-animals.”

Eddie shakes his head, like he’s speechless. There’s a crease around his eyes that tells Richie he’s enjoying himself, though. Richie grins.

“Ok, if I promise to watch an episode sometime, will you stop going on about it? Jesus _fuck_,” Eddie relents.

“I think you’ll like it,” Richie says, grinning.

Eddie nods, with a tired smile. “I really don’t get that much time to watch things, though. Myra – sometimes I watch things with her. She knows the shows, though. I’m not a huge fan of what she watches, so then I don’t sometimes, and then I just end up doing stuff for work. I don’t think she’d like this though.”

Richie’s mood sours thinking of them curled up watching TV together. It’s so…_married. _

“What are you like, watching Grey’s Anatomy together? The Bachelor?” Richie needles. Eddie’s sour expression tells him he’s gotten a direct hit.

“Aw, are you invested, Eds? Do you watch the other ones too? The Bachelorette? Bachelor in Paradise?” he teases.

“Fuck off, Richie, I told you I barely watch TV anyway,” he says, glaring. He pauses. “I watched your Netflix special though, actually.”

Richie tries not to react, even though inside his brain there’s probably a red light flashing and a klaxon blaring and all the little people in his brain control room are running around in panic, like a certain Pixar film he _didn’t _watch on Netflix one night expecting to turn it off ten minutes in and ended up staying the whole time and crying about his childhood. Obviously.

Does he want Eddie to have liked it? To have hated it? Should it even matter to him? Why should he take an insurance analyst in a neat polo’s opinion on comedy?

“I didn’t like it,” Eddie says, matter-of-factly.

Richie laughs. “Fuck you very much, Eds,” he says, and can’t tell if he’s annoyed or thrilled at this. “Other than your whole life currently, what do you know about comedy?”

Eddie scowls. “Fuck you, man. Look, I never said you weren’t funny. You’ve always been funny, even though you’ve always been the most annoying motherfucker too.”

Richie raises an eyebrow and grins. “You know it. I’m so glad you’ve finally accepted the love between me and your mother.”

Eddie makes a gesture like he’s itching to put his fingers around Richie’s throat, and shakes his head. “That’s your problem. You’re still telling jokes like you’re thirteen. And it’s a fucking waste, you idiot, because you actually know how to tell a joke, even when you’re delivering hack material.”

“Well, I didn’t realise we had Johnny Carson in the house, giving me the benefit of his comedy experience,” he snarks, but his stupid brain is now just shouting _FUNNY HE THINKS YOU’RE FUNNY HE THINKS YOU KNOW HOW TO TELL A JOKE HE THINKS YOU’RE FUNNY_. Which is fucking stupid, because he’s attempting to have some kind of plausible deniability to himself about whether his stupid childhood crush has returned in full force, and thoughts like that are kind of wrecking it.

Eddie scowls. “Whatever. Keep telling crappy jokes about jerking off to your girlfriend’s friend’s Facebook. What do I care?”

Richie can’t help grinning. “Oh but you _do _care, Spaghetti. I can see it in your cute little red cheeks,” he says, and leans over to attempt to pinch his cheek like a least favourite aunt. They’ve had wine with dinner, and now he’s onto beer while Eddie’s nursing another glass of red. It’s not enough for him to be drunk by any means, but he’s pleasantly buzzed.

“Fuck _off, _Richie,” Eddie says tiredly, attempting to swat his hand away. The wine has made his reflexes slower, and he doesn’t get there in time before Richie touches his cheek.

In that second, Richie realises he’s miscalculated horrifically. This is just him touching Eddie’s cheek right now, he needs to pinch it, he needs to play it up like when they were kids, or it’s just him touching Eddie’s cheek and _lingering_.

Eddie’s eyes widen for a moment, and Richie roughly pinches Eddie’s cheek and Eddie pulls away.

“You’re so annoying,” Eddie says, but his voice sounds funny. Maybe Richie’s imagining it.

“You love it,” Richie contends, smiling beatifically.

Eddie shakes his head. “Y’know, the last person to do that to me other than you was probably Carrie’s aunt. Which was weird, because she wasn’t my aunt, but she used to do it to Carrie as well.”

“Kinky,” Richie says, putting on a weird voice and grinning lasciviously.

“Gross,” Eddie says, frowning.

“I didn’t know you met like, her extended family,” Richie says, thinking about it.

Eddie gives him a look like this is obvious. “We dated for like, pretty much two years, Richie. It’s a small town. How would I not have?”

Richie lies back against the couch. Mike and Ben are engaged in a conversation, standing on the other side of the living room, and Richie glances at them and then back up at the ceiling. “You were _so boring _to be around when you were dating. It was all _oh hope I’m not late for my girlfriend _and _can’t talk I’ve got to call my girlfriend _and _stop trying put raspberry jelly on my face Richie I’ve got a date with my girlfriend._”

Eddie’s face works, like he wants to be very, very annoyed but he also wants to smile. “Fucking hell, Richie, I can’t believe you’re still getting on my back about this. You had _way _more girlfriends than I did in high school. You just didn’t like ‘being tied down’,” he says, making air quotes. Richie doesn’t want to be charmed by this but he is. Eddie ticks them off on his fingers, tipsy. He was always more of a lightweight than Richie.

“There was Carol Rudetsky, Debbie Johnson, Margo Macaluso – one of Carrie’s cheerleader friends, who I made the mistake of introducing you to –“ Eddie says, giving him a scolding look. Richie cackles.

“That German girl – Klara – for like two seconds at the start of senior year, and…I _know _there’s one I’m missing…” Eddie says, brow furrowed in though. It’s definitely bad that he thinks that’s charming.

“Heather Reid,” he supplies, because he’s a masochist at heart, and reminiscing about the various failed relationships he’s had and women he’s disappointed over the years is one of his favourite past-times. Not that he could really call any of those high-school flings _relationships, _because they barely were – he’d work really hard to get them, get them, realise he didn’t want them or that if things got more serious they’d figure it out eventually, and then either annoy them into dumping him or dump them himself.

Heather was slightly different. She was the last one, at the point in senior when he’d stopped trying to pretend to do the whole dance (while loudly proclaiming he just hated being someone’s _boyfriend _it was so _stifling_, and Eddie would be annoyed, and Stan would roll his eyes, and Bill would just smile because of course being a _boyfriend _suited him very well, even when he and Bev argued more and more that year, because they still loved each other a lot). Heather was the only one he didn’t feel that guilty about.

_Heather’s pretty, he thinks. And she’s not one of the popular crowd, and she likes actual cool music. They’re making out on her bed and she has the radio on an alternative station. It’s playing Sonic Youth, and Heather loves them. They’d split a joint earlier – another thing he likes about her is that she smokes with him and doesn’t judge him for wanting to get stoned. What the fuck else is there to do in this shithouse town?_

_Kim Gordon is asking him to tell her that he’s burning for her. He supposes it’s a sexy song. Maybe it would be sexy with someone else. That’s not fair. He likes Heather. She’s smart, and funny too, and he likes her small, full-lipped mouth. Maybe that’s enough. _

_“Oh shit, I just realised something,” he says, pulling apart from her. _

_“What?” she says, looking worried. Her face is a little flushed. _

_“Bull in the heather? Is that why you like them?” he asks, grinning stupidly. _

_She rolls her eyes and falls back on the bed, laughing. “You’re such a dork, Richie. God.” _

_“Is that why you like me?” Richie asks, and he’s joking but he’s not, because he’s never not craving validation. _

_She grins at him. “Unfortunately for me, yes.” _

_He smiles, satisfied, and leans in to kiss her again. _

_Kissing is nice, he likes that. It’s a perfectly serviceable way to spend an afternoon with a girl you like. If that was all it was, that would be great. But there’s always a moment where you cross from making out to Oh, Are We Doing This? _

_He’s holding onto her hip until he isn’t, and suddenly his hand has shifted onto her butt. Heather looks at him, surprised and almost – anxious, or maybe something else. _

_She takes a breath, and says quietly, “My parents won’t be, uh, back till tonight…” _

_She’s looking at him like he has to fill in the next part of the story. So he says what he thinks his line should be. “Um, uh, cool…does that mean you want to –“ _

_It comes out reedy and awkward, but her eyes widen, and she nods. “Yeah, I mean, if you want to –“ _

_“Uh, of course I want to, are you kidding?” he says, with fake bravado, because a voice in his brain is starting up again. Cards on the table, Tozier. Time to put your money where your mouth is. This is what you want, right, you never shut up about it. And he’d really like to shut that voice up for once. _

_There’s a moment where neither of them says anything. Then she pulls him down to kiss her, but it’s somehow more awkward than before. Before was kind of easy in a pleasantly stoned way, but now there’s a weird pressure on it. _

_She pulls back for a moment. “Do you have, uh, a condom?” _

_For a moment he considers saying he doesn’t have one, but then he’d have to admit certain things and in this moment he is determined to lose his virginity to Heather, who is sweet and pretty and likes Reservoir Dogs and old cheesy sci-fi movies. _

_He finds it in his wallet, and puts it on the nightstand. Somehow the idea of just putting it on now is too horrifying to contemplate, and she doesn’t ask him to do it yet either. _

_They start kissing again, and she pulls his open button-down overshirt off, and then his t-shirt, and he feels uncomfortably exposed, but he pushes through. It’s fine. This is what everyone feels like their first time. _

_She’s breathing heavily, as he pulls her t-shirt off. She actually looks kind of panicked. He stops. “Are you ok?” he asks, concerned. “We don’t have to do this, you know. If you’re not ready,” he says, like he’s doing her the favour. She does look anxious, though. _

_“No, I’m – I’m fine – I want this. Just nerves,” she says, and her voice is too high, but she kisses him before he can make another decision. _

_Her bra is black, and unadorned. He supposes he should try to get a feel in, because that’s what he’s always done if he’s ever gotten this far. She has nice boobs, from what he can see of them. They’re a nice small size, which is good, maybe? Or maybe he’s supposed to want a girl with bigger ones, like Jenny Herbert, but that just seems like a hassle. _

_She squeaks, just slightly, when he moves his hand onto her bra, and he automatically pulls back. “Keep going,” she says, moving his hand back, but it doesn’t feel like a sexy kind of ‘keep going’, and he’s fooled around enough to know what that sounds like. _

_He shoves that thought away. It’s fine. They’re both fine, and this is going to happen, right now. This afternoon. _

_After a while, he supposes he should be moving his hand down south. This is inching ever more quickly towards completely foreign territory, but he’s nothing if not good at bluffing. Or bullshitting. _

_It happens that as he’s very, very slowly moving his hand under her skirt, asking ‘Is this ok?’ and she’s nodding, and trying to kiss him, that the radio ticks over to a song he’s heard maybe once before on this station and doesn’t know the name of. _

_“Girl,” the singer croons, and a dramatic guitar riff follows. “You’ll be a woman, soon,” _

_He freezes, and before he has time to do much more, Heather pulls away. “No, no, I can’t, I can’t, I’m sorry,” she says, sounding freaked out. She turns away from him, and curls up, and he can hear that she’s crying. _

_“Hey, hey, Heather, it’s ok, can you look at me?” he asks, now feeling both guilty and worried. “I’m sorry, did I do something – I’m not actually maybe as familiar with this stuff as I may have made out, and if I hurt you accidentally, I’m really sorry, please look at me –“ _

_He puts a tentative arm on her back, and she turns around, and she looks small and sad and tear-stained. “I’m so sorry – I’m so embarrassed, I just wanted to –“ she bursts into fresh tears, and Richie thanks God that having at least one female friend has taught him, through experience, what to do when a girl is crying. _

_He just holds her on the bed and she cries into his bare chest, and it doesn’t feel like a sexual thing, even though both of them are shirtless. Though it’s probably hard to have a sexy experience if someone’s crying. _

_“Hey, hey,” he says soothingly, and he thinks he’s doing pretty well at this for an idiot whose usual response to bad feelings and crying is to make dumb jokes. “It’s alright, I’m not mad. I’m not expecting anything of you.” _

_“Thanks, Rich,” she says into his chest. She turns to look at him. “I’ve just – I’ve never done this before, and I don’t feel ready, but I thought – maybe, I could be ready, for you, because you wanted to do it. I’m sorry,” she says again._

_He blows a raspberry. “You’ve gotta stop apologising. I’ll get a swelled head and start thinking I never do anything wrong, and then my friends will have to kill you,” _

_She laughs wetly. _

_He looks up at the ceiling. “You know, I wasn’t that wild about doing it today,” he admits, tentatively, wondering why he’s doing it. “But I just – I thought we both wanted to, so why not?”_

_She laughs a little more. “God, we’re dumb. Can we just – at least with shit like this – just be honest with each other?” _

_He smiles, and he feels a little sad, but also oddly happy. Ironically, this has all made him feel closer to her. “Yep. And you know, we don’t have to do anything unless you genuinely, actually want to. Ever. I’m not about forcing people to do things, unless it’s watching bad movies with my friends,” he says, and she laughs. _

_“Thanks, Richie. You work very hard to conceal it, but you’re actually a pretty decent human being,” she says, sounding cheered. “I like your friends.”_

_“Me too. At least most of the time,” he says, and he’s comfortable enough holding her that he doesn’t even mind being shirtless. _

Eddie looks sleepy, because he is apparently a middle-aged soccer mom who gets sleepy after two glasses of wine. He lies back on the couch and looks at Richie.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on tour right now? What did you tell them?” he asks, looking curiously at Richie.

“I absolutely already told you this, so you might want to check for Alzheimer’s,” Richie starts, and Eddie frowns. “But I told them, unavoidable family emergency, and that I had to go back to my hometown for a few days.”

Eddie smiles, and it’s easy in a way he hasn’t seen in a long time. “You _are _a big softie, _God_. Even though you’re desperate to pretend you’re not.”

“Lies and slander. Maybe I was just sick of tour dates and I needed a convenient excuse to get out of it,” Richie attempts but he doesn’t put much oomph into it.

“Well, now I know you’re more full of shit than usual,” Eddie says with a chuckle. “Because I know you love us, because you called us your family, and that’s why you cancelled or moved some tour dates to come back here and see us.”

Richie chuckles. “I love Stan, strange Jewish birdman that he is. I came back for him. The rest of you I could take or leave,” he says, but he can’t help the surge of affection he’s feeling. Maybe he is drunker than he thought. That would be embarrassing.

Eddie laughs. “Fuck you, Richie.”

There’s a moment of silence between them, which is rare, but it’s easy. “I know you’re about to say something fucking dumb and ruin the moment, Richie, but before you do I wanted to say,” Eddie says, not looking at him, eyes almost closed. “I know we all left work and things to be here, but you and Bill might have some real shit to sort out when you get back. Especially you, with these tour dates. I think it means a lot to – Stan, that you’re here.”

Richie doesn’t know what to say. It almost seemed like Eddie was going to say _to_ _me_ at the end. But that’s probably just wishful thinking. “Well…I guess I’m grateful that Stan’s here. Nothing else they throw at me matters,” he says, quietly.

Eddie opens his eyes and looks at him strangely for a moment. “Actually, I think I need you to say something fucking dumb now, I can’t deal with you being emotionally mature.”

Richie grins, going for the first thing that pops into his head. “Uh…boobs. Cindy Crawford’s boobs. But Cindy Crawford’s don’t compare to your mom’s, which I have seen, and I would compare to the Sistine Chapel in terms of cosmic artistry –“

“Ok, that’s dumb enough, you can stop now,” Eddie says, wincing. There’s some kind of warm look in his eye though, and Richie is sure he’s not imagining it this time. The happy crease around his eyes is still there.

“You asked.”

“My mistake.”

Richie looks up at the ceiling, grinning.

***

“So you’ll be back at school by Monday, then?” Ben asks Mike.

They’re having the kind of adult-work conversation that Richie would hate, but Ben finds very interesting. There was a point, when he wasn’t sure whether he’d even be able to be an architect, when he thought maybe it wasn’t even the right fit for him, when he considered switching his major to education. Teaching had always seemed like something he could do, something that the high school guidance counsellor had marked out for him on aptitude tests. He’d been told he had the temperament for it. But then things had turned a corner with architecture, he’d started doing really well, and then he hadn’t thought about it more than that.

Mike frowns, slightly. “I’m not sure. I did say that I’d probably be taking the Monday off to help Stan, and I’ve got a sub who can cover me, but now everyone’s here I’m not sure he needs me,” he says, and his eyes flick towards the door to the hallway and back in a split-second. “To help with the boxes, and the packing,” he continues.

Whatever that’s about, Ben doesn’t press him for it. “I’m sure he wants as much help as you can afford to give,” he says instead. “Many hands and all that, right?”

Mike smiles, and there’s still something a little sad about it. “Yep. Sooner we’re done, the sooner he can sell it, I guess.”

“You think he’d want to sell it?” Ben asks, surprised.

“Well, I don’t know why he’d want to stay here,” Mike replies. “And he’s probably not keeping both houses. He doesn’t need the stress.”

Ben nods, considering.

Mike looks around. “I should probably get onto that washing up. Bill and Bev cooked, and Stan’s not doing a washup while I’m here.”

“Do you need someone to help? You shouldn’t have to do it all yourself. That’s a lot of washing up.” Ben offers, but Mike smiles and shakes his head.

“That’s really generous, but I’m fine,” he says.

Ben looks at him. “You sure? I’m happy to.”

Mike smiles, and there’s a lot of warmth in it, and still something cloudy and sad in his eyes. Ben wonders, not for the first time, why he didn’t leave. That had always been their plan, to get old enough and get the hell out. He doesn’t ask, though. It wouldn’t be fair. “Yeah man, don’t worry about it. I need a moment to think anyway.”

Ben looks at him. “Are you ok?”

Mike chuckles. “I just find washing up calming. I know, it’s weird, but don’t worry too much about my mental health just yet. I’m ok.”

He smiles, and nods towards the front door. “I think she’s out there, if you wanted to talk to her.”

The great thing about Mike is that he was never mocking about Ben’s weak points. He never even tried to be funny about them. He just quietly understood and accepted.

Ben still feels his cheeks go warm, and it’s not just the wine. “Oh…right. Well if you don’t need me?” he asks, and Mike waves him on.

He makes his way out to the front of the house, and hears Bev’s muffled voice on the front lawn. It’s dark, and she’s pacing around. He can’t really see her, but he can make out her shape, tense shoulders drawn. “Don’t fucking call me again, ok. I mean it. I won’t pick up,” he hears her hiss into the phone, and feels like he’s walked into something very private. He tries to go immediately back inside, but she sees him. She jabs a finger at her phone in the way that people used to slam landlines back into the cradle.

“I’m – I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to –“ he says, and doesn’t even know what he wasn’t trying to do.

She looks upset, but brightens on seeing him. “No, don’t worry about it. I’ve barely hung out with you tonight. Wanna sit with me?” she says, walking up to the porch and sitting on the top step.

She rummages in the pocket of her jeans and manages to pull out a small package of cigarettes. “I forget, do you smoke?” she asks, offering the box to him.

He shakes his head. “I did for a bit – y’know, stress – but it kind of messed with my jogging. Thanks, anyway.”

She goes to close the box without taking one out. “I can wait,” she says, with a guilty kind of smile.

He shakes his head again. “Oh no – feel free to smoke, I’m fine –“

She gives him a strange considering kind of smile. “Ben, it’s ok. You’re not risking lung cancer because of my bad decisions.” She snorts in a rueful kind of way. “Good at making those.”

He wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what. They stare out at the night.

He gathers his courage, and asks. “So – and if you just want to sit here and not talk about it, that’s totally, I understand – but do you want to talk about…whatever’s going on with you?”

She stiffens, fiddling with the cigarette packet. “It’s not – it’s unimportant,” she says, quickly. 

Ben regrets asking for a moment, as he looks down at the old wooden steps.

“No, sorry,” Bev says, softer. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk with you about it. I just – it’s something that is –“ he can feel her turning to look at him. He looks at her, and it’s hard to see in the gloom but her eyes are glinting. “I don’t want to bring it here, you know? I want us to catch up and talk and I don’t want you to have to think about it.”

She looks pained. Glances down at her arms, crossing them over her chest protectively. His heart aches for her – whatever it is that she won’t bring here, although he’s got a sick feeling he can probably guess.

He wants to comfort her somehow, but putting his arm around her might be the wrong move, so he doesn’t. “I get that,” he says, softly. “But you know, you can tell me the bad stuff, too. We used to tell each other nearly everything, you know? That’s what I’m – that’s what we’re here for, Bev.”

Bev looks at him, cocking her head to one side and regarding him with a small, happy smile. She drops her arms, looking less tense. “You’re an incredibly decent man, you know that, Ben?” she says, soft as him. “You always were.”

He’s glad it’s dark. Maybe she won’t pick up that his cheeks are burning. “I – just wanted to be a good friend,” he says, slightly awkward. He thinks about it. “I still do. If you’ll let me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Bev asks, sounding bemused.

“Because I wasn’t – I lost contact with you. I’m so sorry for that,” he says, and he has to look down, because he’s afraid that even in the dark she’ll see how awful he feels about it, how much it’s been torturing him for the past two decades.

It’s not just about her. Losing touch with all of them was awful – but the loss of her was the worst, he can’t pretend otherwise.

He watches her hand move slowly before he realises she’s moving towards his. She touches his hand, and he’d like to pretend that it doesn’t make his heart jolt, but he’s apparently still thirteen, fifteen, seventeen years old and panicking when they get too close.

_Ben bikes out to the forest, intending to go to the clubhouse. Sophomore year is in its waning days, and he could not be more grateful. It’s been a long year._

_He was going to see if anyone wanted to come, but Stan had a piano lesson and Richie and Eddie were going to go to the comic book store. He figured Richie wouldn’t want extra company, especially since now Eddie’s time was split between his friends and Carrie, and Richie had looked grateful when he’d said he was going to go to the forest instead. _

_He hadn’t seen Mike before he left school, and Bill and Bev were probably together. They usually were, if they weren’t with the group. Which was totally fine and normal, and he wasn’t thinking about it at all. _

_He climbs down the ladder carefully and starts when he turns around and realises there’s already someone in the clubhouse. _

_Bev holds a hand up, from where she’s lying against the cushions and blankets they’d organised, to have a soft place to sit around. There wasn’t exactly an abundance of furniture he could get down here. _

_“Just me,” Bev says, looking at him like she’s surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?” _

_She’s smoking, and it’s not one of her normal cigarettes. It does smell like weed down here, now he thinks about it. _

_“I can – I can go –“ he says, wondering if she wants to be alone. Wondering where Bill is._

_She shakes her head, and pats the spot next to her emphatically. “Ben, no, come sit with me.” _

_He hesitates. He thinks it’s probably fine when they get to sit next to each other when there’s at least one another person around, but he always feels weirdly guilty doing it when it’s just the two of them hanging out. _

_She pats the blanket next to her and his resolve crumbles. As it always does. _

_She smiles when he comes to sit down, and takes a drag from her joint. Her expression soon fades into something less happy. Her eyes are red and her eyeliner is smudged. _

_“Bev…is everything ok?” he asks. _

_She snorts. “Yeah, peachy.” _

_He doesn’t say anything. She turns to look at him, looking guilty. “Sorry, sorry. Thanks for caring, Ben.”_

_He smiles. “It’s alright.” He waits for a moment. “So, what’s up?” _

_She sighs, holding the joint between her fingers. “Bill and I had a fight.” _

_Her voice sounds hurt and angry, but wrapped up in cotton wool. Slightly removed. _

_He’s not happy to hear it, obviously. He never wants her to be in pain, and he doesn’t want Bill to be in pain either, because they’ve both really been through enough. And yet, there’s always a sliver of his mind, one that he hates but can’t quash entirely, that is morbidly interested to know how bad it looks for them. _

_He does whatever he can to quash it though, because mostly he just wants them to not be hurting, and to be happy with each other. _

_“What about?” he asks, as gently as possible. _

_She takes a drag, and blows out smoke a few seconds later. “Guess I’m about to sound like a real cow, because I’m sitting here, smoking, but – “ she says, bitterly, and takes another drag. She looks at him, and she looks pained. And beautiful, even though she’s upset, but he shouldn’t be cataloguing that, especially not when she’s upset and needs him to be a good friend. Slipping into that without realising makes him feel like a creep. _

_“I’m not going to judge, Bev,” he says, and she sighs, breathing out smoke. She looks at him again._

_“I know.” She looks at her Docs moodily. “We got into it because he thinks Richie and I are skipping and getting stoned together too much. He’s not thrilled about it.” _

_Ben looks at her, surprised. “He’s jealous of Richie? Does he think –“_

_Bev laughs, but not unkindly, more surprised too. “No, definitely not.” Her smile sinks, and she continues to inspect her boots. “More that he thinks it’s ‘not a great idea’. Well if the alternative is sitting in Algebra and barely learning shit, while Gretta and them giggle about me, I think it’s a great fucking idea,” she says, hotly. She looks at him, eyes sparking. “What do you think?”_

_It’s a minefield, certainly. Too honest, and she might get shitty with him too, too much bullshit and she’ll be able to tell, and she won’t feel like she can trust him. _

_The problem is, he agrees with Bill. They’ve talked about it. He and Eddie have talked about it, and he’s listened to Eddie’s panicked rants on what cannabis can do to a developing brain. It feels like a bit of a betrayal, talking about her with Bill, but that’s a problem with dating within an extremely tight-knit friendship group. _

_They’re all itching to leave town, certainly, but with Bev and Richie it’s different. They’re – angry. They’re wilder than they were, going feral for some reason that only they know. Richie has this fire in his eyes sometimes, and if it catches the fire in hers, it feels like they’re in danger of burning everything down. _

_There’s something oddly familiar in the way Richie is right now, something recognisable to him. He thinks he might understand sometimes, but he can’t quite focus on it, not when he’s worrying about Bev. Around the beginning of the school year, she had – fairly unexpectedly, given how much she’d laughed at the idea in the past – joined the cheer squad around the same time Mike had joined the football team. He’d felt weird about it because even if those kids were suddenly accepting of Bev and Mike, it didn’t mean that they had to do that for him. But it wasn’t about him, so he supported it. It was fine, for a while. They dragged him to a few parties, and they were kind of fun, but he could tell he didn’t belong. _

_Then, maybe two months ago – within a few weeks of each other – Mike had quit the team citing having too much to do (but had privately admitted to them that he just wasn’t comfortable being part of team that was alternately creepy to girls, casually racist, casually homophobic, and often all three at once), and Bev had walked out of cheer practice and not come back, saying it had been a failed social experiment on whether she’d ever wanted to be popular, or have to put up with popular-crowd shit._

_Ben had secretly thought it was a blessing, but she wasn’t happy. She wasn’t interested in trying anymore, like she was burnt out with the effort of trying really hard all year. She was still kind when she talked to him, and she hung out with everyone, and she still seemed good with Bill, but the only person who seemed to want to match her self-destructive tendencies was Richie. _

_So they were hanging out a lot, smoking and drinking when they could get their hands on alcohol, and cutting school. _

_“I think,” Ben hedges. “I think this is something you guys are going through, and I can’t tell you if you should stop but I guess…I don’t understand it. But I’d like to…if you want to. Tell me, that is.”_

_Bev’s expression softens, almost in surprise. There’s something grateful in it. “Really?”_

_He nods, almost not wanting to break eye-contact. “Really really. Go ahead.” _

_She smiles at him slowly. “Thanks, Ben.” She looks across the clubhouse, and nestles into the cushions. “I know Bill’s worried, but it’s not like…we’re just blowing off steam, you know?” _

_Ben considers this. “It’s been a long year. Is that all it is?” he asks, gently. He knows it isn’t, but you have to let her admit it, before you start treating it as fact. She’s stubborn, and it’s annoying, and he wishes he didn’t appreciate that about her. _

_She breathes out, and it becomes a kind of frustrated groan. “You’re telling me. No…it isn’t.” _

_He waits. She continues. _

_“I just – you know, I fucking tried, this year. For my whole school life up until this year, I was the girl who didn’t care. I think the last thing I was involved in was the third grade play I was in with Bill,” she says, and laughs, a little too sadly. “Then people…started hearing things. Started talking about me. Started saying – well, you’re familiar.” She stops to take a drag, and waits before she breathes out. “So like, I thought, I’m not a joiner. I’ll just get through this shit while calling as little attention to myself as possible. I don’t care about any of this shit.” _

_She looks at him, bitterly angry and sad. “And then I got the great idea that maybe, since I had so many guy friends, and I had like, one girl friend, maybe I should try and make more, even though those girls were probably the ones talking behind my back and calling me a slut. Another great decision by me.” _

_“You were trying something new. Nothing wrong with that,” Ben counters._

_Bev snorts. “Yeah. Until they start expecting you to trash other girls, and one of them starts calling you a slut again because she’s mad you’re better at back handsprings or her creepy footballer boyfriend tried to hit on you at a party or whatever.” _

_Ben frowns, sympathetic. “God, I’m sorry.”_

_Bev shakes her head. “It’s fine. I was getting sick of the girl-world dynamics anyway.” She thinks for a moment. “Actually, that’s not fair. Maybe non-popular, non-awful girls are great to hang out with. But those ones…it’d be like, oh we’re not talking to Marcy today, she bought the same skirt as me. Such bullshit.” _

_Ben breathes out a low whistle. “Sounds…complicated. And not fun.” _

_Bev laughs a little, a bitter strain still ringing in it. “You’re fucking right about that.” _

_She looks at him, and her expression is sad, wild, like she hasn’t quite said everything she needs to. “But you know what’s the most pathetic thing? I actually enjoyed it, for a bit. Going to games. Hanging out with girls. Going to parties. It felt like – oh this what normal girls do.”_

_Ben looks at her. “You’re not pathetic for enjoying that, ok? And you know, you don’t have to regret the good experience just because it ended badly. Things are often – ” _

_He searches for the right words. “ – terrible and exciting at the same time. Think about the first time I met everyone – I was scared, and humiliated and physically in a lot of pain, but then you –“ he catches himself. “You and everyone else were there, and you were all looking after me just like, like you’d known me forever. I’d never been so happy to have such a shitty experience. It’s alright to admit you enjoyed parts of it, even when the other bits sucked.” _

_She smiles slowly at him. Her eyes are unfairly bright, no one should have eyes like hers. “You’re very wise, Ben,” she says. “You wanna smoke?” she asks gently, holding the joint out. _

_He hesitates. He’s not a big fan of getting high, because it leaves him feeling over-aware of his body and under-aware of his actions, if he’s staring or smiling too much. But there’s something about it right now, her holding out the joint to him, the kindness in her face – he caves, and agrees. _

_She smiles, with a kind of surprised delight, and holds it out to him. He takes a drag – holds it in his lungs – and only coughs a little as he breathes out. She laughs, a little, but there’s nothing mocking in it. _

_He smiles sheepishly at her. “So, you’re out of there though. Now you can just be who you want,” he says, just a little croakily. _

_“Ok, well that’s the problem, though,” Bev says, smile fading a little. “I feel like – ever since I walked out, I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore. I thought I was the girl who didn’t give a shit about that sort of thing, and clearly, that’s not fucking true. Even when I was with them – I started to feel like I was no longer the ‘slut’, yay for me, but I was suddenly ‘Bill’s girlfriend’ to everyone. Not even me, anymore –“ she rants, and breaks off, breathing heavily. _

_“I don’t think of you as ‘Bill’s girlfriend,’” he says, and he regrets taking a second drag because clearly, it’s already working. He passes it back to her, and almost feels shocked when their hands touch. It’s tragic. She looks at him curiously, her breathing returning to normal, and he stumbles out, “I mean, of course, you are – but you’re my friend, first - and I’m sure everyone – but Bill, maybe – the rest of the guys would agree that you’re their friend before you’re Bill’s Girlfriend to them. You’re so much more than that, any day. Someday soon it’ll be more than just us who sees it.”_

_There’s a moment where neither of them says anything. She smiles at him, so warmly that he might pass out, but he’s afraid to look away. Then suddenly, so suddenly, her eyes are watering, filling up with tears that are breaking past her eyelids and rolling down her cheeks. _

_His stomach twists with panic, and he hasn’t even smoked that much but he already feels too high. “Hey, hey, hey, I’m sorry, what did I say?” he asks, trying to sound soothing when he’s so worried. _

_She shakes her head, swiping at her eyes rapidly. “No, no, it’s not you. I’m being stupid. God, I’m too high for this.” _

_He finds the hanky in his pocket, and silently thanks his mother, this one time, for making him carry one around. _

_“I promise you it was just washed, and I haven’t used it,” he assures her, tentatively holding it out. _

_She takes it off him gently, and her hand brushes his again. He wants to die. He kind of wants to stay here forever. “Thanks, Ben,” she says, wiping her eyes, still sounding choked. _

_“Did I say something? I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t even smoke, really,” he asks, completely failing not to sound worried. _

_She chokes out a half-laugh, and smiles a little at him. “No, I’m – I’m just –“ her expression starts to crumple, and he’s afraid she’ll start crying, but she doesn’t. “You’re all gonna go somewhere amazing soon. Especially you, Ben. You’re so smart, God.” _

_He tries not to blush and has a horrible feeling he’s losing that battle. She looks miserable._

_“You’re gonna have college experiences, all of you guys. And it’s going to be me, or maybe Mike and I, just stuck in this shithole forever. And Mike deserves to get out of here even more than I do, but it’s not like there’s much money for either of us to go to college,” she says, sniffling. “You know what the totally fucked up and unfair irony of the situation is?” she says, frustration returning. _

_“What’s that?” he asks, tentatively. _

_“Mike’s so smart, he could probably get a scholarship somewhere pretty good. He’d have a hell of a personal essay, I’m sure of it. But even if he does get to go to college, he’ll probably stay in the state, so he can keep helping Miriam and Ernie, because he’s such a good, selfless, person. And I’m so – I’m so selfish –“ she says, and she does start crying, and he can’t help it – he puts his arm around her. She nestles into it a bit, and he tries not to think about it. She wipes her eyes, and tries to start again. “It’s like – I love you guys, and Miriam and Ernie, but sometimes I think I can’t stand another fucking second in this town, and Mike – Mike even suggested that I try and get a scholarship, but I’m not the smart one. I’m fucking doomed to be bagging groceries at the Shop-N-Save until I’m forty.” She sniffs into his shoulder, and her hair smells so good, and he is not getting sidetracked. He is being a good friend, even though they don’t do this, really. She does this with some of the others, but he stays away from it in a group setting, because he can’t trust that he’s not going to do something embarrassing. But this is different, and he doesn’t comment on it, in case she comes to her senses. Instead he says - _

_“Ok, Bev, you’re my friend, but as your friend I have to tell you when you’re just fucking wrong.” _

_Bev looks up at him, taken aback. He definitely swears the least of their group, so when he does, it’s to make a point. _

_He looks at her. “You’re not selfish, and you’re not stupid, ok? That’s the most ridiculous thing ever. You’re always looking after everyone, and you’re sometimes the only one who can think of something quick enough to shut Richie up when he says something really stupid.”_

_She smiles a little, gratefully. Her eyes are wide and misty, but he supposes that’s probably due to the pot and the crying. “You’re sweet, but my grades are not scholarship grades.” _

_He shrugs. “So we get them there.” _

_She looks confused, and a little wary. “What?” _

_“I can work with you. You’re so smart, and you know it. With my help – and I can probably get Stan to help with some of it, you know he would in a second, and Eddie – however many of us it takes, we can tutor you. We’ve got a whole summer ahead, even.” _

_She groans, but then smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, sorry, that sounds really kind.”_

_He smiles. “Yeah, and then next year we send out scholarship applications. It’ll be you doing the work, we’re just going to help you get there. You can do this.” _

_Her eyes water, but she doesn’t cry this time. Then, without warning, she throws her arms around his neck. He’s not expecting this, but he finds himself settling into it, hugging her back. She really does smell great, and he’s pretty sure she’s not even wearing perfume. He’s so gone, it’s shameful._

_She seems to realise that the hug is a bit long at the same moment he does, and she lets him go, trying to extricate herself from his neck and shoulders. Suddenly he’s staring at her face, and it’s closer than it ever is to him. Her eyes are clearly God’s cruel prank on him, because they look like tiny oceans, and he wants to look into them forever. She doesn’t break eye contact with him for a moment, and he’s not imagining it, she is looking at him in a strange, affectionate way. He wonders if this is what Bill sees, and understands why he’s like that around her sometimes, because it’s incapacitating. _

_Then with a hot twist of guilt in his stomach, he remembers Bill. His friend. Defender from bullies and serial killers and mean girls. Head over heels in love with this girl, who he has been dating for three years. The one Ben is too close to right now. _

_He pulls back, and she looks surprised. But she also looks slightly guilty too. _

_“Sorry, I’m – you know how affectionate I get when I smoke. I just meant – thankyou. For being such a good friend,” she says quietly, sounding embarrassed. She doesn’t meet his eyes. He doesn’t attempt to meet them._

_He nods, wanting badly to not have this make things awkward. It’s way easier if it’s only horrifically awkward on his side of things. “Sure, sure,” he says, quick and little high. “I mean it, you know. I’m gonna make sure you get there.” _

_She smiles, finally looking at him. “Thanks, Ben. You’re really – quality. A quality person.” _

_He chuckles. “Well, I, uh, I try.” He looks around, and back to her. “Hey, uh, what’s up with Richie, right now?”_

_She raises her eyebrows in a kind of grimace. “That I don’t really know. Well, I have my suspicions, but I don’t think it’d be fair to him to tell you. Especially if I’m totally wrong.” She shakes her head, and her long hair falls around her shoulders, wafting a strange and – disturbingly – not totally unpleasant aroma of shampoo and weed towards him. “I figure he’s gonna do this shit anyway. Least if I’m with him I can keep an eye on him, y’know?” she says, sounding more worried. _

_“No – I think that’s a good thing. He’s lucky to have you looking out,” Ben says, honestly. He has his own suspicions about what’s eating Richie – but if he’s wrong, Richie might never want to talk to him again._

Ben can’t help looking at her, in the gloom of Stan’s parents’ front porch. If it weren’t for the fact that he _feels _those years, he might even think no time had passed, like it’s still 1994 and they’re just sitting up watching the stars after everyone’s fallen asleep at a movie night.

“You don’t have to be sorry you didn’t stay in touch, Ben. I’m so – I did the same. I’m really sorry,” Bev says softly.

“Don’t be,” he says, because he’s not even mad about it. “Life gets in the way. Work...Marriages. I get it.”

Bev makes an irritated noise when he says _marriages, _but just nods. She looks at his hand, still touching it with hers. Still making no attempt to move it. “It’s just…crazy that _you’re_ not married,” she says, like she’s genuinely surprised. “You must be like, the most eligible bachelor in Seattle. Fuck, you could probably _be _The Bachelor, if you wanted,” she says, and now she’s smiling, and he can just make out its impishness.

He laughs. “Talk about my worst nightmare, Bev. Being on reality TV and having to date like twenty-two women at once. I work so much I barely have time for one.”

Bev raises an eyebrow. “That why you’re not married?”

He feels his cheeks warming, and feels ridiculous. “One of the reasons, I guess,” he says, looking down. “Who are you, my mom?”

Bev laughs, and he’s missed it. He wonders how long he can cope with this, before the Olympic-sized torch he’s apparently still carrying for her starts burning his fingers. He wonders whether he’ll be able to keep in touch with her better this time, and how long Stan needs them to stay.

“If I were Richie, I’d say something really gross right now, so you should be glad I’m not,” she says, grinning.

“One of the many reasons I’m glad you’re you, Bev,” he says, and he’s grinning too, but he can’t help but mean it. She gives him a look he can’t quite parse in the dark. She’s smiling but there’s something off about it, something maybe kind of sad. She still hasn’t moved her hand away. He doesn’t either.

***

It’s later than they all realise and everyone is sleepy with wine and a big meal.

Stan realises this is the moment he’s been dreading all day, but he accepts it anyway, getting up from the couch where he’s been talking to Bill and Mike.

“I guess you’re all wanting to go then?” he asks, attempting to stifle a yawn. He hopes it doesn’t sound too disappointed.

Bill looks baleful, like he hadn’t considered that he’d have to move from the couch again.

Everyone mostly starts moving sluggishly, attempting to get up and failing.

Richie looks at him crankily, over his glasses. “Can’t we just stay here? Eddie’s definitely had too much wine to drive, he’s practically catatonic,” he wheedles, indicating Eddie next to him.

“Fuck off,” Eddie says, sounding too tired to give it any real heat. He probably shouldn’t be driving, to be perfectly honest.

Bev shares a brief look with Mike, and maybe Bill. “Actually, I’m not sure any of us should be driving. You’d kind of be doing us a favour, if a few of us could crash,” she says, stretching.

“Fuckin’ A, Stan. I might not physically be able to leave this couch. Don’t leave us at the mercy of the guesthouse mattresses,” Richie says, yawning without trying to hide it.

He knows what they’re doing. They did it last night, too. He could point out that Richie had more to drink last night and still drove back home, but he won’t. He’s just drowsy and grateful that these people are here and are still his friends.

He can feel that everyone’s waiting for him to make the decision, trying not to look at him too much. “Well…” he says, slowly, even though he wants to say yes immediately. “There are two couches in here…plus, the twin beds in the guest room. I think we’ve even got two spare mattress around, if I go get them from the basement, and we’ve got enough room for them in here. I’m not sure about bedding though…”

“Actually, remember we found a bunch of surplus bedding stuff in the cupboard down in the basement? I’ll help you grab those and the mattresses from downstairs, if you’re ok with this,” Mike pipes up, next to him.

He smiles a little. “Alright, fuck it, why not?”

Richie cheers. “That’s the man!”

Mike stands, and looks around at everyone. “Don’t think this means Stan’s making any beds tonight. We’re going to get the stuff from the basement, and then he’s going to bed, because he’s already been kind enough to let us stay.”

Richie groans. Stan grins.

***

Stan’s parents’ basement is a pretty nice basement, as they come. It’s not like the Denbrough’s creepy one, full of old paint cans and DIY paraphernalia – the kind you’d avoid if you possibly could. Stan’s parents actually made an effort to make it nice down here, with lights and furniture. Well there used to be furniture, like a futon. It’s either been packed up or sold, before they died. There’s an exercise bike down here in front of a little television, way more modern than the one that used to be here. They had many a hang-out here, various birthdays, lots of memories. That’s for certain.

Still, Mike can’t shake the feeling that being back down here is weird. A little forbidden.

“So, it’s this cupboard that we found them in, right?” Stan asks, walking ahead and pulling the door open.

“Yep,” Mike says, coming up next to him and helping pull the mattresses out.

Once they have them out, Stan looks at them, and then looks around. “Weird – being down here again, huh?” he says, voice slightly croaky from drinking, maybe. “I keep thinking nothing’s changed, but it has.”

Mike follows Stan’s gaze to the space where the exercise bike is. “I know what you mean.”

Stan coughs. “Yeah, I guess before this week you wouldn’t have been down here in what, since – “ he asks, looking back at him curiously.

“Ninety-four, I think,” Mike says, although he doesn’t think, he knows. Maybe not the exact date but the year and the month, certainly. He doesn’t press Stan about it, because it’s not important. As unimportant now as the last day he worked at the diner, or the date of the last day of school.

“Right, yeah…” Stan says slowly, rolling the words around in his mouth like he’s tasting a wine at a winery. They’re not as insanely drunk as they were the night before, but they’re not that sober either. Stan has a charmingly pink tinge to his cheeks when he drinks, he’s so pale. 

He doesn’t look away from Mike, and Mike tries, as ever to understand what he’s thinking.

Stan swallows. “Um, yeah,” he says, quickly. “We should probably, uh, find that bedding. For everyone.”

Mike is briefly caught off-guard, and recovers fast. He nods. “Right, probably a good idea.”

They look for the bedding, and finding it, put it next to the mattresses.

“You know we’re gonna have to do this in trips, right?” Mike says, and Stan sighs.

He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, and Mike smiles. “Alright, the sooner we do this, the sooner I can go to bed. But I’m not sleeping with you this time,” he says sleepily, and then his eyes widen. Now his cheeks seem to be reddening from more than the wine.

Neither of them says anything for a moment, and Mike almost wants to laugh but Stan looks so embarrassed that he keeps it in. The awkward moment sits between them.

“I mean, uh, on your bed, because last night, and I passed out, and you’ll have at least a couch to yourself. Upstairs,” Stan babbles, suddenly alert.

Mike laughs, a little, and it breaks the awkward tension. Stan grins, sheepish, cheeks still a little red. “Sounds great. I really hope Richie doesn’t snore, though.”

Stan coughs a laugh, unexpected. “Yeah, well, that’s your cross to bear.”

Mike laughs. “Asshole,” he says, jokingly.

Mike keeps smiling. Stan smiles back, eyes hazy and warm behind his glasses. He opens his mouth to say something, and Mike waits, and seems to hesitate, and then says, “So, the mattresses?”

Mike looks at them. “We should really rope someone else into helping.”

As if on cue, he hears the door at the top of the stairs open, and footsteps coming down the stairs. Ben and Bill stop on the bottom stairs.

“We figured we should p-probably help,” Bill says, and Ben nods. “We decided that Bev and Eddie should take the beds, especially since Eddie is about five minutes from passing out, and the rest of us will stay in the living room,” Ben adds.

Stan nods. “As long as Mike gets one of the couches. I think he deserves it.”

“Is this your w-way of m-making it up to him for p-passing out in his bed last n-night?” Bill asks, smirking.

Ben raises an eyebrow at Mike. He grins. “It seemed cruel to move him,” he explains. Ben doesn’t ask any more, but smiles a little.

“For that Bill, I’m making sure you sleep on the floor,” Stan grumbles. “Anyway, you were the one that starfished Mike’s spare bed and made it impossible for me to crash there.”

Bill cackles.

***

Bev wakes up sharply, and almost stops herself screaming. She’s disoriented for a moment, panicked by a sensation of phantom hands around her neck and arms, covering her mouth, breathing heavy in the dark of a room she doesn’t recognise, ripping her cardigan off because she’s burning up, sweating, until she realises it was a nightmare and that she’s in Stan’s parents’ house.

Stan’s house, now. She should start thinking of it like that.

She didn’t scream, but she couldn’t help letting out a panicked whimper. She wonders if she’s woken Eddie. Hopefully not.

She waits, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

“You…’kay, Bev?” comes Eddie’s very quiet, mostly still asleep voice from the other side of the room. His twin bed isn’t that far from hers. She’s filled with sudden affection, that he’s basically asleep but still trying to comfort her.

“Sorry, Eddie. Bad dream. Go back to sleep, I’m ok,” she whispers.

“Mmm…sure?” he replies, sounding like he’s falling asleep saying it.

“Sure,” she whispers, warmly.

“Mmm,” he says, and she’s sure he’s asleep in the next five seconds.

She lies in bed for a while, but realises she’s not getting back to sleep anytime soon. She sits up, snags her mobile off the end table and her cardigan from next to her, tries to get her cigarettes and lighter out of the pocket of her jeans as quietly as possible, and slips out of the room.

The nightmares aren’t uncommon for her, but it’s been a while since she had one so visceral. It’s probably being back here that’s making it worse. It’s fading now but she has the sense that it was about, maybe, all three of them. A three-headed monster of the monsters in her life, faces shifting into each other with dream logic sensibility.

She shudders, trying not to think about it, slips her cardigan back on, sweat and cold air making goosebumps on her skin. She lets herself out the front door, so she can have a smoke, and already on edge, almost jumps out of her skin when she sees someone already sitting on the porch steps.

She swears, and he turns, and swears too, eyes wide with anxiety.

“Fuck, Bev, warn a guy,” Stan says, holding a hand to his heart. Then he looks at her, and his expression softens. “Couldn’t sleep?”

She shakes her head, feeling like she must look pretty terrible. He gestures for her to sit down next to him, so she does. Up close she can see he looks haunted too, a kind of distant thousand-yard stare in his eyes she’s only seen once before. He’s not wearing his glasses, so the effect is more intense. “Me neither,” he says, darkly.

She shivers.

They don’t say anything for a moment. She likes the feel of the cool night air on her face. It reminds her of sneaking out of the apartment – back when she lived in an apartment with Tom, before they moved into the brownstone – to sit on the fire-escape while he was asleep, and think of ways he might get better, might be better, or how she might leave him. She never did. She always crept back into bed before he woke up.

“You’re outside, but you’re not smoking?” Bev asks, mildly.

“I just needed some air,” Stan replies, frowning.

He looks at the cigarettes in her hand. “Feel free to though,” he says, politely.

She holds it out to him. “Do you smoke?”

He smiles in a short, sharp kind of way. “Only when stressed,” he says, and takes one from her.

She smiles, but it’s not happy, feeling a pang of deep empathy. She lights her cigarette, and then his.

They smoke in silent companionship.

“Sweet fucking _Christ_,” Bev breathes out, after a moment. “I can’t tell you how badly I needed that.”

Stan breathes out. “Fuck, right?” he says, deeply.

Bev nods.

“Was it because of what’s keeping you up at, I think, two-thirty in the morning?” Stan asks, quietly. He gives her time to respond. She’s always appreciated that about him.

“Yeeeah,” she says, quietly. The dream itself is fading but the anxiety and fear it has stirred up haven’t yet. The cigarette is helping. That and being around a friend. “Fucking _nightmares_.”

He gives her an empathetic look, and doesn’t reply for a moment. “Snap,” he says, with a humourless, wispy chuckle.

She frowns. “God, I’m sorry.”

He smiles a little more at her, still sad but genuine. “Why? It’s not your fault.”

She shrugs. “I guess…I don’t think you deserve it.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “And you do?”

She looks down at the porch steps. “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, blowing smoke out. “You wanna talk about it?”

She snorts. “Not particularly.”

He grins sharp. “Fair enough.”

Suddenly, she feels like she actually _needs _to talk about it. Whatever she can cope with. She swallows.

“I’m used to the nightmares, you know,” she starts slowly. She’s had them pretty much since she was thirteen – maybe earlier, but definitely, the waking-up-screaming-in-fear ones started around that time. They got slightly better later – sophomore year of high school, she barely had them. In college they were rare – depending on what total dropkick she was dating, they were better or worse – but they came back a few months after she met Tom. “It’s like they phase in and out. Sometimes I’m having them a few times a week, sometimes not for months.”

“Can I – can I ask what about?” Stan asks, quietly.

She nods, and smiles a little. “For you? Anything,” she says, only a little tongue-in-cheek. She really would do almost anything to make him happy.

The sides of his mouth quirk, almost into a smile. She takes a long drag on her cigarette. “Often they’re about – him – “ she says, forcing the words out. Stan’s eyes widen again, and he nods. He knocks his hand against hers – maybe too afraid to take it without asking. She takes it in hers.

Stan gives her a look of wordless empathy, and squeezes her hand. She squeezes back and smiles, very slightly. “I dream he’s ... sometimes he’s chasing me, sometimes…sometimes, he’s choking me again and I can’t breathe, and I can’t touch the ground, and I feel his breath –“ she gasps, and takes another drag of her cigarette with shaking fingers.

Bev realises his hand is trembling too. “I’m – I’m sorry, I’ll stop talking about –“ she says, and her voice is shaking.

Stan shakes his head, not letting go of her hand. “No, I want to – I’d like to hear it. If you want to tell me.” His voice small and shaking too.

She nods. “I think being back here has really fucked me up. My dreams about him were never nice but like, being here it’s like it’s given them more – juice, or something. They’re really vivid – I – I fucking _hate _it,” she says bitterly, surprised by how upset she is.

He shakes his head. “Glad it’s not just me, I guess,” he says, attempting wryness, pitching into a similar bitterness. “I – have them – too,” he says, like he’s forcing the words out as well. “About…him,” he spits. He takes a drag of his cigarette, and his hand is shaking like hers. She squeezes his hand, stroking her thumb soothingly over his skin.

“I dream – I dreamt, before that I was in the sewers again and I was lost, and I tried to call out to you guys – but he was there, and he – and he was so big, so much bigger and heavier, and above me and his nails were digging into my face, and I was so – I was so sure –“

Stan lets out a sort of gasp-sob of horror, and Bev’s heart leaps into her mouth. She stubs her cigarette, puts it down, and pulls him into a hug. He sniffles into her shoulder, and she rubs his back. “I’m so sorry…I’m so, so sorry,” she says quietly, already crying as well.

He rests his head on her shoulder, after they pull apart, and they look out at the night.

“Look, from personal experience – there’s nothing I can say that will make these dreams any less fucked up,” she says, sniffling. “But you gotta know we love you. _I love you_. I know my track record for not – forgetting you isn’t great. But if you have those dreams, and you’re freaking out, just call me. I keep my phone on and I’m not a deep sleeper.”

He sits up straight, and smiles softly, red eyed. “Same goes for you, Bev. I mean it. I love you, too. If you need to call, call.” He pauses, then continues. “And by the way – you know I don’t blame you for getting lost down there, right? For what happened with him? I mean, I don’t really blame anyone, but especially not you and Richie.”

Her eyes water again. “Yeah, but – if I hadn’t been – you wouldn’t have all gone down to –“

Stan shakes his head. “We would have ended up there even if none of us got kidnapped. You know what Bill was like on a mission.”

She considers this. “I guess, well – I never thought of it like that. I like that.”

An image from her nightmare bubbles up, and she shivers, involuntarily, and he puts an arm around her. It’s not because she’s cold. She kind of wishes she hadn’t put out her last cigarette, and she’s wondering whether she should have another. She decides to talk about it, even though she never talks about this part of the dreams. Maybe _because_ she never does.

“In the dream I saw him. Al. My – my – father,” she says, spitting it out like a bite of rotten fruit. She thinks of him as that only in the biological sense, because he gave up the right to any parental affection a long time ago.

Stan makes a quiet noise, somewhere between anger and bone-deep disgust. “Is he there – often – or is it being here?”

She looks down. “Both, maybe,” she says, and she hates how small her voice sounds. She’s not afraid of him anymore. Except some part of her still is, some part of her is twelve and afraid of him, forever forty and strong in her memory. “I dreamt that _he _turned his face into Al’s. He was choking me – and then Al was, and I was – twelve again, and in the kitchen of that shitty old apartment – he was so big – and I couldn’t – I couldn’t _breathe_,” she says, dissolving into sobs. She buries her face in his shoulder, and he holds her, and she can feel him fighting to steady his breathing. He whispers the same things to her as she did to him before, _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. _It’s not much, but it’s all they can give each other. Love and support. It’s all anyone can do, she supposes.

She rests her head against his shoulder. “I’m so, so goddamn tired of feeling like this. I’m not afraid of who he is now – I haven’t seen him in what, twenty-two years? Before that maybe once after he went away? He’d be a weak old man in his sixties now. If he hasn’t fucking died. But in my head, he’s fucking _still_ terrorising me, and he still looks so big, and I still feel so _fucking_ helpless,” she says, and she’s too tired to shout about it but she’s shaking with anger and exhaustion.

He keeps his arm around her, and she appreciates the comfort. “In my professional opinion,” he says, still a little shaky. It’s nice how he manages to say it without it sounding like a boast, not like some guy you meet a party who lectures you about behavioural psychology, but that’s him. “I’d say the trauma doesn’t go away, but you can find ways to manage it. To not feel so helpless…” he says, takes a breath, and pauses. “Do you go to a therapist?” 

She sighs. “Yes. Whiskey.”

He groans. “If I were on the clock, I’d tell you that’s not a healthy coping mechanism,” he says, wryly, and she grins, a little. “But as your friend, I…can’t exactly talk,” he says, ruefully.

Her smile goes away, and she wraps her arms around his torso, in a side-on hug. “You don’t have to. I just want you to be happy and safe, alright?” she says, letting him go and looking at him.

He looks at her, and his eyes are heavy with feeling. “I want the same for you, you know?” 

“Of course, I know that,” she says, as normally as she can, even though her throat is tightening already. She tries to smile a little.

He looks down, eyes glancing toward her covered wrists, then back up. “Are you, Bev?” he says, and his eyes are so anxious.

It hits her like a physical shot, and she doesn’t know what to say. She’s too tired, at two-thirty in the morning, sitting here with him, to lie about it anymore. 

“No,” she whispers, already feeling tears rolling down her face.

He looks hurt too, but not just sad – grieving. It hurts to see him like this.

“Can I –“ he asks, barely audible, motioning toward her arm.

Bev nods, and he very slowly, and with a touch so light and kind that she might have burst into tears if she wasn’t already crying, rolls up her cardigan sleeve.

She’d managed to forget how ugly the bruises look, even in the dark.

Stan gasps, a horrified sound.

He strokes a thumb, very-lightly across the bruises, across the small circular burns from when Tom had drunkenly stubbed his cigarette out on her arm – more than once – but never when sober. Which wasn’t saying much because he’d grabbed her arms, her wrists, hard enough to bruise purple-black-green when he’d been sober. He’d thrown her around and smacked her in the face when he was sober.

Stan looks furious, disgusted, devastated, but his touch remains gentle.

Across the small, white scars up under her elbow, – tiny cuts really – that she’d made because wanted to feel some kind of release, in an area she could hide them with a long-enough sleeve. That’s where his face crumples and he starts to cry, and she’s crying too, hanging her head in shame. She did this. Now she’s making him feel worse, and she can’t even help him.

“May I…” she asks, hoarsely, almost voiceless, motioning to his arms. He hesitates, and then nods.

He’s wearing a long-sleeved pyjama shirt, and she, trying to be just as gentle as he was, rolls one of his sleeves up and exposes the bandage under it. She closes her hand around it, very softly, stroking his bandaged wrist with her thumb. She looks at him, and he looks down, and he’s still crying, and she throws her arms around him, crying in earnest.

He holds her to him and she holds him back. It feels like they stay like that for a while. She doesn’t know though, somehow time doesn’t feel real. The night, the dark, the front porch feels like a liminal sort of space, and maybe that’s why she felt brave enough to show him. Maybe that’s why he was brave enough to show her. They weren’t going to judge each other.

He lets her go with a gasp like coming up for air. He wipes his eyes. She takes a moment to wipe hers too.

“That’s Tom, right?” he says, quietly devastated, looking out at the trees.

She nods, not even sure if she can talk right now. She looks ahead too.

“But you – you did some. Cuts.” His voice wobbles, threatening to crack.

She nods again, feeling her eyes water.

He just takes her hand. She holds on.

“So, you know I’ve never been in the business of telling you what to do,” he says, almost-steadily. “But you have to leave him. You can’t go back.”

He doesn’t say it meanly, but it’s a statement of fact, not an opinion. Like there’s been a fire, and she physically cannot go back. She loves him so much – not in the way she loved Bill, more like a brother,someone who was so close to her once. They read together, studied together, on one memorable occasion did drunken karaoke together, and she is only realising now - after seeing him two days ago - how much she’s missed him.

“I know,” she says, quietly. “I already – I had a go bag ready, supposedly for unplanned work trips, but really for if I needed to leave quickly. I wasn’t … I wasn’t planning on going back.”

He looks at her. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

She shrugs. “I have money of my own. Secret bank account. Long-term, I don’t know.”

Stan shakes his head. “We’ll figure something out. Between all of us –“

Bev shakes her head too, a tendril of icy fear gripping at her gut. “No – no. You can’t – I can’t – I don’t want them to know. Yet, at least. I don’t want B –“ she stammers out, and she doesn’t even know who’s name was going to come out of her panicked rambling before she stopped it.

He squeezes her hand, and nods. “You don’t need to tell anyone, unless you want to, Bev. But just remember – there’s nothing we wouldn’t fucking do for you. I’m sure you don’t need me to remind you.”

She sighs, accidentally letting out a sob. He looks at her, worried, and she smiles, just a small one but as much as she can. “I know.”

She sighs. “You know, part of the dream that woke me up? Tom was in it. He was Bob Gray, and then he was Tom.”

Stan shudders and shakes his head, wordlessly angry, but not at her.

“I keep – I keep worrying he’s gonna come here. He keeps calling and I haven’t been picking up,” she continues, and then remembers earlier, with a hot twist of anger. “Actually, I picked up earlier. Just to get him to stop texting me. Bad fucking idea, as it turns out. “

“Does he know where you are?” Stan asks, seriously. “How did you…leave things?”

Bev looks down, holding tightly to his hand. She has flashes of it – _Tom screaming at her – the bedroom, with its perfectly styled furnishings, one of which she’d picked up – rough hands pushing her onto the bed. _

“Not well.” An understatement if there ever was one. Stan looks patiently on. “I told him it was an emergency. That I had to go home. Not that I thought he’d accept it, but I told him what had happened – I said it was a female friend, because any time I even mention –“ she breaks off, angrily. He holds onto her hand, but not so tight that it hurts.

“Anyway, he accused me of lying, which might seem like he was on the money but it’s pretty much his go-to move. Stopped clock’s gotta be right twice a day, right?” she says, with bleak humour. “And then he went for his other one. I hit him with something on the bedside table, I don’t remember what. I grabbed my bag and ran out. But I never told him where I grew up, so he wouldn’t know.” 

_“No-one’s going to love you like I love you, Bev! You’re damaged goods, baby! And I’m the only one who’ll take them on!” he was howling, but she didn’t dare look back. She was already gone, even though it was raining like crazy and she hadn’t called an Uber, she just kept walking until she saw a cab she could hail. _

She doesn’t tell Stan this.

“Fuck,” Stan says, with feeling. “I’m glad you’re out of there.”

He looks suddenly so guilty. “I wish I’d been a better friend, after college. I wish I’d been there for you.”

She looks at him, gently. “Hey. That fucker made sure I missed your wedding. And that was at the start of our relationship. Back when I still told him about having male friends. We’re here now, and that’s all that matters to me.”

Stan shakes his head again, angrily, and then looks at her, sort of bewildered. “Why would he be threatened by me being your friend at that point? I was literally _getting married._”

This surprises a laugh out of her. “Well, the jealous psychopathic mind can twist anything to convince itself of its own insane theories.” 

He shakes his head once more, half-smiling ruefully.

She decides she wants another cigarette. She drops his hand, lights one up and offers the box to Stan. He looks at it for a moment, and then says, “Fuck it, why not,” and takes one.

She takes a drag, and blows out smoke, and it is glorious again. “Tom hated me chain-smoking,” she says, with vindictive satisfaction. “He used to use it as an excuse to lay into me.”

Stan winces, slightly. He stares at a point ahead on the lawn. “Patty didn’t like me smoking. But she never said much about it. Maybe once or twice. She didn’t smoke. Doctors, you know. I quit for her, for a long time.”

_Patty_, Bev thinks. _The big mystery. _

She’d only met Patty in person maybe once. She’d seen photos of them together, later. Stan had sent them in emails. She’d liked her when they met, thought she was perfect for Stan. Bev had always liked the look of her – kind-eyed, warm. They always looked rapt to be together, and in a real way, not the way Tom and her would smile when they posed for photos together with no real warmth in it.

There’s silence for a while as they smoke.

Bev doesn’t want to ask, but she can’t help herself.

“What…happened, to your marriage? It didn’t seem – I never saw you together, I guess, but you seemed to be the one with the really good one…” she says, and then cringes. “Don’t answer that if you don’t want to. I’m…in a weird headspace, thinking about Tom.”

He lets out a weak chuckle. “It’s ok. I understand.”

They sit silently for a few more moments. He stares into the branches of the tree ahead. She slips her cigarette to her left hand, a skill she’s perfected, and slips her right into his again.

He glances at her, looking grateful. His eyes are misty. She gives him an empathetic look and squeezes his hand.

He looks down, and gulps, then looks up and straight ahead, back at the trees.

“Patty and I were…” he starts, and trails off almost immediately. Bev waits for him.

“We were good,” he says, heavily. “We – were genuinely so in love. In fact, we were more than just _good, _we were great.”

He exhales miserably. “And she’s so intelligent, you know, even though she doesn’t try to brag about it. So intelligent, and really good at her job, so, uh…” he trails off, takes a drag, and blows smoke out. “She got this job offer. Headhunted to apply for it because they knew of her. Once in a lifetime kind of thing, you know? The sort of thing, you turn it down, you regret it. And she was like, trying to downplay how much she wanted to do it. Pay was really good, although that wasn’t why she wanted it. She wanted it because she could help people on a larger scale,” he says, blinking furiously for a moment.

“What was the job?” Bev asks, gently.

“It was with the World Health Organisation. In a role that would mean she’d get to be a part of research teams and still work with people in major studies. It was pretty much her dream job.” He breathes out, morosely. “I told her to take the interview.”

“So, that’s where – Washington, right?” Bev asks. It’s not that far from Atlanta – she wonders if Patty took it, and assumes she did. Surely they wouldn’t have dissolved a twenty-year relationship and long term loving marriage over a job a state or two over. She can’t picture it.

Stan sighs, and there’s something broken in it. “I wish it had just been Washington. I could’ve done Washington, you know. It wouldn’t have been great to leave my practice in Atlanta, but I would’ve done it – I would’ve, I would’ve done –“ he breaks off with a jagged gasp.

The sound is painful to her, the sound of someone who has thought about this a lot, who is still torturing themselves over it. She’s not unfamiliar with the feeling.

“Oh, hon,” she says, softly. 

Stan looks at her, pained. “But it wasn’t – it wasn’t in Washington. It was in Copenhagen.”

Bev sucks a breath in sharply. “Oh.” Copenhagen was a _bit_ more of a commute from Atlanta.

He looks down again, at the old steps they’re sitting on. “And even then –“ he says, breathing jaggedly. “I might have – a move like that, sure that would be hard but not impossible. We’d have to leave our friends, but honestly I’m not that close with any of them, you know. Couple friends. Patty’s friends’ husbands,” he says the last thing with a vague hint of derision.

“Mhmm,” she agrees, in the same tone. She and Tom have _couple_ _friends_. She gets along fine with the wives but she’s not close with them. They want to talk about spin class, and going to Turks and Caicos, and their children, and how gorgeous the new line is. They don’t want to talk about her arms, covered in makeup when she needs to wear something sleeveless or go out in public. Still, the bruises would be visible if you really looked. They don’t want to talk about the edge in Tom’s voice when they get together for dinner, and he’s had a few and he’s talking to her. It’s not their business.

Stan looks back at her and nods, understanding.

“I thought I knew what the job entailed when she applied for it. I figured we’d cross that bridge of ‘are we going to move to Denmark’ if she got it. Then she did, and I thought, maybe we will? You can live in Denmark without knowing much Danish. Not sure whether I could’ve gotten a job in my field there without having to recertify, but that – I didn’t care about that. I’d drive Ubers around Copenhagen if I had to, you know? It wasn’t about the money. I’d have taken almost any kind of job there if it meant we would be together, like we’ve been for the last twenty years. Pretty much I’ve spent the majority of the last twenty years with her – give or take the couple of months we broke up in late senior year,” he adds, with a rueful almost-smile, like the time they were broken up is almost nothing compared to how much time they’ve been together. “Almost my entire adult life, I’ve spent with her.”

He breaks off, and sniffs. She can see his eyes are watering again. She squeezes his hand and he squeezes back, holding on to her like a lifeline.

“But, it wasn’t just that. Of course it couldn’t just be that. The job required a lot of travel, too – the main Europe office is in Copenhagen but they have studies set up in a few countries. They needed someone to be based in Copenhagen, and to fly out regularly to London and other parts of Europe, and on rare occasions out to parts of Asia,” he says, voice deadened.

Bev sucks in a breath again. “Oh. Yeah, that sounds intense,” she says, sympathetically. She looks at him. “So what did you do?”

He shrugs, looking suddenly helpless. “I wanted – I wanted her to have her dream job. I wanted to go with her. But the thought of – being by myself in a foreign country, probably being an Uber driver or something, probably not practicing in the job I studied for a _long _time to work in, and leaving the practice I started and grew into a successful, if small, office while she wasn’t there half the year – and probably very busy when she would be there – we both knew it was unworkable,” he says, voice shaking, and she wonders if he’s said this to anyone yet, out loud, because he seems to need to say it, like he can’t stop now he’s started.

He grimaces, and starts to speak again, but all that comes out is a choked noise. He swallows, and tries again.

“She had a while to decide, because at that level they give you time to start packing up your life and make the big decisions,” he says, and there’s a hint of bitterness in it, but it doesn’t seem directed towards Patty.

That’s another thing that is beautiful and rare about him, like the kind of bird he would wait up for and be excited to see. He doesn’t seem to hate her – even though he could find several excuses too. He doesn’t hate her, although he’s unhappy with his life. It’s depressingly rare in a lot of husbands.

“So it became not should we move to Copenhagen, but should you take your dream job? We tried to look at it from every angle – could she go without me and we’d commit to visiting each other when we could? Could I come with her on her work trips? Could she stay in Atlanta and try and find something higher level there?” He coughs a bitter almost-chuckle.

“We both knew there wasn’t some magical solution. There were two very simple options, and both were going to hurt like hell. I didn’t want her to leave me and she didn’t want to leave, but I felt like – she admitted as much, near the end – that if she didn’t take the opportunity, we could have a nice life like we’d been having. We could have had another twenty years together, and we’d be comfortable, and we’d be – we’d be in love –“ he says, and his breath hitches on a sob. He clutches her hand tightly, but not uncomfortably.

“Hon,” she whispers, voice heavy with tears already.

He shakes his head. “But it was just – we don’t have any kids, we decided a while ago that we weren’t going to – we don’t have anything to divert our attention. It’d just be us, and I feared – I was scared that she’d end up resenting me, as much as she told me she didn’t care about any job as long as we were together. I think she was scared of that too, as much as she didn’t want to be. Twenty years of built up resentment, rotting away our relationship.”

He’s crying silently now, and so is she.

“There was a moment, near the end – where we both knew she had to take it, and we just sat together and held each other and cried,” he says, and he breaks fully at this, chest-heaving sobs. She holds him again, and he cries into her shoulder. She cries too, for him, for them, for all of them – seemingly unable to break the cycle of misery, unable to properly be happy.

She looks at him, holding his face, stroking the small white scars on the sides. “Oh honey…is that … is that why?” she asks, a pained whisper. She shouldn’t ask, but she has to know.

Stan suddenly looks very small to her. There’s a great deal of affection in his eyes, though, when he looks at her. He blinks. “No,” he says finally, hoarse from crying. “At least I don’t think – it might have led to it, but it wasn’t – No,” he says, definitively. “I wouldn’t do that to her.”

“Did you ever tell her about – “ she asks, very quietly, dropping her hands but still looking at the scars. They’re so small now, barely noticeable, unless you know what you’re looking for.

Stan’s eyes widen slightly, but he nods. “Took me a long time,” he says, ruefully. “I was stupid – here’s me studying to become a therapist, doing psych classes, learning about _repression _and _trauma_ and _coping mechanisms_ and I thought I could just bury it and not tell anyone about it. I didn’t want to tell her about it at all because I wanted her to like me and think I was normal. Not damaged goods.”

Bev feels a spike of ice-cold fear shoot up her spine making her shiver involuntarily. _Damaged goods. _

“You’re not, Stan. Not then, not now. You’re a person who’s been through some shit. You’re still a person,” she says, looking at him seriously.

He smiles weakly. “I guess that’s true. I don’t feel like it sometimes, but thanks anyway.” He looks down. “It got harder to hide when we started sleeping together. I would wake up screaming sometimes and I wouldn’t tell her what it was I dreamt about. She’d ask me where I got my scars, was it a childhood injury, and I wouldn’t tell her. We started fighting. Turns out, hiding a whole part of your childhood that still directly affects your psyche is not a great idea in a relationship,” he says with what is almost a chuckle. More like a rueful wheeze.

She nods, raising her eyebrows. “I’m sure a few us could have used that wisdom in our lives.”

Stan nods. “Yeah. I told her it was something bad that happened when I was a kid, but I didn’t talk about it any more than that. She didn’t press me. We were just out of college when I had a panic attack one night and she asked me to tell her, just so she could understand. And – surprisingly enough, because it’s not like I studied psychological care plans for trauma victims or anything,” he says, with the barest hint of a self-deprecating smile. “It felt so much better to tell her. She understood, and she didn’t look at me weirdly, she was just sorry for me. We carried it together after that.”

Something about that makes her feel both happy for him and hurt for herself. She wouldn’t have dreamt of telling Tom about Bob Gray – he already knew about her dad and had used that to his advantage, holding it over her head. Something she told him when she thought she could trust him, when she thought they really were in love. A long time ago. She didn’t make that mistake twice.

“So, she’s in Copenhagen or somewhere in Europe right now?” she asks, gently.

“Yep. Copenhagen, currently.” She looks at him curiously, wondering how he knows.

He looks a little sheepish, but mostly just sad. “We haven’t been that great at – cutting the cord, entirely,” he explains, sighing. “We keep up with each other. Phone calls, and emails. Every so often. It’s not like – every day, or anything. But especially since I – “ he breaks off, and looks down. “My therapists – in the hospital and my usual – recommended I didn’t lie to her about it.” He shakes his head. “She was in the middle of this big project, and she was so busy, but she still wanted to get on the next flight back to Atlanta. She was –“ he breaks off, and takes a gasping breath, ragged, remorseful. “She was so – devastated. I almost wished I’d let her go on thinking I was fine. But it would be such a big lie – it would hurt so much more if she found out accidentally. We talked for a long time, and I told her it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t because of us. It was me. There was a lot of crying, because that’s apparently all I do now,” he says, wet-eyed and sniffling, with that same almost-smile.

Bev rubs his back.

“I talked her down from that, and we decided she’d just check in with me when she could. Make sure I was doing ok. That I had people around.”

She nods. “I’m glad she knows that you do.” She pauses, and then continues. “Didn’t you… want her to come back?”

He sniffs loudly, lets out that same weak wheeze-laugh. “I – maybe, yes. But we’re not together now. I know she would have done it, and I would have been _grateful _to see her, but it wouldn’t change things.” He looks at her miserably. “I didn’t want to be the asshole that does some kind of sick powerplay like that. Letting her go, and then making her come back and look after me, the worst thing I could do.” He sounds bitter now, but it’s directed at himself. She puts her arm around him. He leans into her shoulder again. “And, a little part of me thought – what would be the fucking _point _of us going through all of that if she was going to chuck it in to come back to me. Even if she could get a bit of time off without pissing her bosses off, she’d have to go back sooner rather than later. It’s been a year, you know? I don’t actually think it would have been – healthy for either of us, in the long run.”

He sighs, heavy with tears. She hugs him one armed, and he keeps his head on her shoulder.

“Yeah, I guess I understand what you mean. You’d already started on that path, and nothing would have really changed if she came back. And she enjoys the job?” Bev asks, not sure what she’s hoping to hear.

“Loves it. She used to downplay it a bit, maybe to make me feel better, but I said that it would make me feel worse if it wasn’t what she hoped for. She’s so good in it, and I think she downplays how good she is. She’s not braggy like that. I know she is, though,” he says, almost smiling again.

_He really loves her, still_, she thinks. _He probably always will. _“Well, I’m glad she’s enjoying it, at least. Makes at least a part of that pain worth it.” 

“Mhm,” he says, emphatically.

He sighs again, lifting his head up.

“She was always – there though, for the nightmares. We were rarely apart. Even if one of us had to make a work trip. If I had a bad night, I could always call, and she always picked up. Even if it was the middle of the night,” he continues wistfully.

“And then she wasn’t – she wasn’t there. The nightmares had become less…frequent, for a while, but they started happening more and more.” He stops and takes a breath. She can feel him trembling. “I thought I could handle it. I went to work. I tried to take sleeping pills, but they only made the dreams worse and harder to wake up from – “ he breaks off, and she holds him as he shivers violently for a moment. She waits for his breathing to return to normal, or semi-normal.

“I know about that,” she says with deep understanding, and realises she’s shivering a little herself. She didn’t like sleeping pills for that reason either, and because they made her sluggish. She liked to have clear reflexes around Tom.

“And then – then –“ he chokes out. “My parents get into a car accident, from which they died instantly. No need for me – for me to come back. Within a year of –“ he breaks off, with a half-swallowed sob. He looks up at the sky. “And the nightmares are getting worse, and I can’t keep calling her about them, because we need to be learning how to be without each other not fucking becoming _more codependent_¸ and I can barely work, and I have to organise the funeral, so I take some time off. And I stopped taking my meds.” Stan breaks off again, and doesn’t speak for a moment. When he continues, there are tears in his eyes. “But that just means I’m home, all the time, and it’s this place that doesn’t feel like mine anymore. She’s not there, and it’s full of our memories, and I can’t go see my parents, and I realise I don’t really have any friends, ones that I could talk to, and I don’t have a home – anywhere –“ he says, and he’s crying again. She’s crying too, holding onto his hand tightly.

“I _loved_ you all, and I lost you all too, and I didn’t even realise it till it was too late. I suddenly realised I don’t have _anything, _and I start thinking, God really fucking hates me, huh? I don’t know what I did, but perhaps he’s testing me, like Abraham. He wants me to suffer like fucking Job. And I can’t sleep because I keep seeing _his fucking face, his awful breath in my face, and he’s so much bigger _and I’m exhausted all the time and I just wanted – I just wanted it to stop. I wanted to just – stop, I was just so fucking _tired _of being scared –“ he breaks down completely, and lets her hold him. She couldn’t say which of them is crying more. She has never hated herself more for falling out of contact with him when she could have helped him.

“I’m so, so sorry you felt so alone,” she says, grief-stricken, into his shoulder. Her eyes and throat feel swollen from crying – a feeling she’s used to – but this time it feels not just devastating but strangely cathartic, like he needed to say this and she needed to hear it. “I know I can’t go back and be there for you, but I’m here now. Whenever you need me.” 

“Don’t apologise. You came – you put yourself in _danger_ –“ he replies, muffled, voice breaking slightly on the last word. “Because you wanted to support me. You’ve already gone above and beyond.”

She looks at him, slipping her hands around his wrists softly. He looks like a mess and she probably looks worse, but it’s dark and it’s only them out here, so it doesn’t matter. “I’m just so glad you’re still here. Whatever higher power I have to thank, even if it’s your vindictive Old-Testament motherfucker, I will,” she says and he laughs weakly.

“Yeah, I’m not sending him any thanks, currently, but that’s between me and him,” he says, an undercurrent of bitterness in it. “But you could send a fruit basket to the poor housekeeper I forgot to cancel, and probably traumatised,” he says, deeply guilty. “Rosa. She visited me in the hospital. She saved my life,” he says, his eyes watering again. He blinks it away.

“Well, then we’re all in her debt,” she says, smiling a little. Her cheeks feel strange, smiling after crying for so long. But she’s genuinely smiling this time. She drops her hands from his and thinks of something. “You really don’t have to go into it more but – what happened with the funeral?”

He nods, and she can see that guilt is still in his expression. “My cousin Mary took over the planning. My parents always liked her. But I – I was in the hospital when they had to have it, so I couldn’t go…” he says, shakily, and she’s worried this will tip him over again, but he just sits speechless, and she can tell he’s grieving them. She doesn’t remember grieving her own mother because she was too young to understand what it was. She doesn’t really even remember her. How awful to have your parents die at this age, when you’ve known them your whole life. Or – more foreign to her – when you’ve loved them your whole life.

“I’m sorry,” she says and wishes she could say more. He smiles, sad but grateful.

“It was – it happened,” he says, simply. “I told Patty about it, so she wouldn’t feel like – it was about us. Or that was the only thing. It wasn’t her fault that the timing of it all was _fucked_,” he says with a rueful little half-laugh. “That was another reason she wanted to come. But I told her that I would have to miss the funeral and she wouldn’t get here in time anyway. She was – _is_ – extremely kind like that.”

Bev nods. “She sounds it. I always thought she looked kind, in your photos.”

Stan smiles a little, wistful but kind of proud. He sniffs. “God, I need a tissue. And a drink, maybe.”

She considers it. “That sounds amazing. Can we do it without waking everyone up?”

“If we walk down the hall very quietly, and get into the kitchen from that door we can.”

“Sounds amazing. They don’t need to see this mess,” she says, half-joking but half-serious.

***

Stan’s poured them a little bit of whisky each, and they’re standing in the kitchen, with one little light on. They’ve managed to clean themselves up, and are still red-eyed and puffy but they haven’t cried again.

He looks at Bev – the kind of friend who will comfort and cry with you at two in the morning and drink with you at three, and is filled with gratitude and affection for her. For all of them, but especially her right now. “I honestly – I can’t believe you’re all here for me. I’m lucky to have friends who are so – extremely generous.”

She smiles a little and her eyes are still a little sad, but they’re also soft and full of affection. “I’m just sorry…that it wasn’t sooner. And that it took this to bring us together.” She thinks. “Even though it’s a bit weird, being back here with everyone.”

He coughs out an unexpected laugh. “It is, a bit. Good weird though.”

“Good weird,” she agrees, with an enigmatic smile.

He looks at her, finding himself smiling a little too, thinking of something. “So, I guess it’s weird being around Bill again. After so long.”

She looks at him, surprised, and smiles curiously. “Still watching everyone, then?” she says, but it’s affectionate.

“It’s not hard. None of y’all are subtle,” he says, drily, deploying the _y’all _with something like irony.

She gasps quietly in mock-outrage, putting a hand to her chest, and sips her drink. She relaxes, and looks at him very honestly. “It is weird to see him. He’s actually doing it – the thing I always thought he would, and I’m so proud to see it.”

“Hey, so did you,” Stan says, wanting to defend her – even from herself.

She smiles. “Yeah, I kinda did,” she says, and then her smile falls. “He did it without shackling himself to a creep, though.”

Stan frowns, too. Like that was her fault, that it was harder for a poor girl on college scholarship to be successful without partnering with someone more privileged. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. He didn’t have to.”

She nods, smiling gratefully at him.

“I can’t believe he married someone famous – like, famous-famous,” she says, suddenly. “From what I’ve seen of her, she seems so – cool and charismatic, and he’s _such _a dork,” she says, startling a laugh out of Stan. She laughs too.

He doesn’t really understand, but maybe he does. He thinks about their conversation in the study, and thinks, if that was what she saw in Bill he’d understand.

“I have no idea, either,” Stan says anyway, grinning. “I’m really not aware of these things, but I think I saw one of her movies a couple of years ago with Pat. From what I remember the movie wasn’t great, but she was good.”

Bev nods. “She’s good at what she does.”

She looks strange, kind of wistful. He thinks about them today, laughing with each other about the prom photo. About Bill saying, “We make a good team,” and the look on his face.

She catches his eye. “What?”

“Nothing!” he says, innocently.

“Come on, I feel like you can tell me. It’ll hardly be the worst thing either of us has heard tonight,” she says, half-jokingly. 

He smiles a little. “Ok, but you asked. I guess I’ve just been – noticing … you guys seem pretty close, still. Like…not much has changed, with you.”

She’s surprised by this, and there’s a flash of guilt in her eyes, but only briefly. “ I –“ she starts, and he thinks she might disagree, and then she sighs. “I thought about lying to you, but I’ve told you much worse things tonight, I guess. I don’t know. He’s – Bill,” she says, simply with a small chuckle. Stan feels like it would be inappropriate to agree with a, “I feel you, sister,” but he gets it.

She contemplates her glass and looks up at him. “I guess – this is just probably not the best time for me to get back in contact with my high school boyfriend who I loved a lot, and who I had some very good, relatively easy, years with. And he’s handsome, and somehow as charming and dorky as ever, and there’s _something_ there,” she says with a little smile, sipping her drink. Her smile fades as she continues. “And he’s married. To a beautiful, younger, famous actress who he probably loves a lot, and maybe I’m just projecting onto him. I don’t know.”

Stan nods, finishing his drink. “Yeah, there is that,” he says. He looks at her. “Not that I’m suggesting anything – I’m not trying to wreck everyone else’s marriages because mine is wrecked,” he starts, and she regards him with interest. “But, y’know, he didn’t bring her. He didn’t say how long he’d be here, either.”

Bev sips her drink. “Yeah, but she’s the lead in his movie. She couldn’t exactly pack up and leave. They needed her there anyway.”

Stan nods. “Again, not implying anything. Maybe everything is fine with him and I’m just bitter, but … I know he came he to support me, and I couldn’t be more grateful, but I kind of get the sense he was grateful too, to have an excuse to get away.”

Bev drinks, looking thoughtful. “Well it’s not like it matters. Whatever’s going on with him, whatever’s going on with me. We’re here to support you, above all else.”

She looks at him over the top of her drink, and he’s sure it’s how he looked at her before. Like there’s something she is dying to say but is stopping herself.

“What?” he echoes.

“Nothing,” she echoes, just as innocently.

He gives her a look. “You made me tell you mine. C’mon, you can tell me. I can handle it.”

She looks somewhat guilty, but she’s also giving him a look of immense care. She bites her lip. “Ok, but please don’t be mad.”

“Why would I –“ he says, suddenly apprehensive, but still very curious.

“Are you sure you want to know?” she asks.

“Well, kinda now, yeah. What is it?” he replies, with a half-chuckle.

She gives him an empathetic look. “Well, it’s kind of like your question…Is it the same with you and Mike?”

Well. He hadn’t been expecting that. He’s shocked speechless. She watches him anxiously.

“What?” he asks. Vaguely panicked, mostly just kind of stunned.

She looks guilty. “I’m sorry, I’m – we were being honest and I thought you might need someone to talk to about it, but if that’s not the case, I’m really, really sorry. I’m not trying to embarrass you.”

He softens, because obviously she isn’t. “How did you –?“ he says, trailing off into confusion. He thinks about it, arrives at the obvious conclusion and shakes his head. “I can’t believe Mike told you. I know you told each other everything, but he promised he wouldn’t…do that…“ he says, trailing off again. Wondering whether it’s a bad decision or a worse decision to pour himself another finger of whiskey.

“Stan, I promise he kept your secret,” Bev says, pained. He looks up at her, confused. No one else knew about it, he’s certain. They weren’t exactly strolling down main street hand-in-hand. If someone else had known, everyone would have found out, and it wouldn’t have been pretty.

“How, then? I don’t think anyone else knew…” he asks. Not even mad, just completely baffled.

“He was gone so much, that last summer. And it wasn’t just work, you know, he hung out with us but he was gone a lot more than he had been. Maybe no one else noticed it, but I lived with him.” Bev looks worriedly at him. He can feel himself blushing already, which is embarrassing. He’s not a teenager anymore.

“So – I found him sneaking into his room one night and I asked him what was going on. And he didn’t want to say, but I was worried that he was getting into something dangerous maybe and we ended up talking. He told me he was dating someone – “ Bev pauses, like she’s remembering it. “No, he told me he was in love with someone and they loved him, and that he was going to spend as much time with them before college as he could. He told me it was a guy, because he knew I wasn’t going to care. He wouldn’t say who, or if I knew them or not. He didn’t give you up.”

“Oh,” he says quietly, because _he told me he was in love with someone _keeps playing in his head. It’s not _news _to him, but it’s like she’s kicked open a door that was already partly ajar – the words remind him of the pain he’d locked away for a long time, not entirely forgotten but out of sight. It’s not totally her fault, but he had been keeping up a sort of plausible-deniability thing with himself, since he’d come back and seen Mike again.

“But how did you know I was the, uh,” he says, currently unable to properly finish his sentences.

“Well I didn’t know, then,” she says, eyes still on him. “I thought it might be Richie, for a bit.”

“Richie?” he starts, trying to keep his voice down, startled into a stifled laugh.

“I didn’t think that for very long!” she says defensively, trying to stifle her own laugh. “I think we both know if Richie was in love with anyone it wasn’t Mike,” she says, with a soft smile.

Stan raises his eyebrows, giving her a knowing look. “Mmhmm.”

She looks back. “I think in the back of my mind, I had an idea. You were gone a lot that summer, and there’s only so many piano lessons and errands to do for your dad that you can do,” she says gently. He rubs the back of his neck, definitely feeling himself blushing now. He’s wondering if anyone else in the group put it together, but the beauty of that summer was that everyone seemed wrapped up in their own drama. Except Bev, clearly.

“And, if you remember, you came out to me as bisexual five seconds after I did to you,” she says, with a soft laugh. He chuckles, remembering visiting her at NYU in 1996, sitting on the roof of her dorm after a big party. They’d dropped acid with a few dorm-mates and people on her floor, he’d hooked up with her roommate a cute, petite black girl with trendy glasses and long, slick dreads. They’d smoked on the roof in the early morning, and it had all come out, so to speak.

“So it wasn’t like that was impossible, for you. But it was –“ she says, and pauses. “It was yesterday, when we were in the clubhouse. The way he looked at you. I’d been seeing that since the restaurant, but I don’t know – maybe it was all the talk about Prom that made me think about where Mike was, because he made sure Bill and I had the farmhouse to ourselves,” she says and smiles, almost a little embarrassed, but she moves past it. “I know he didn’t end up at Ben’s, so I just wondered if – “ she says, and then looks at him, worried again. “I really didn’t mean to bring it up, if it’s uncomfortable for you. I just… meant it when I said I’d be here for you from now on. And if no-one else knew then you might need someone to talk to about it.”

She’s so worried and now that he’s over the shock of her knowing something he’d thought was long-lost in time, he feels deeply guilty that he’s made her feel bad.

Her hand is on the counter, and he puts his over hers and squeezes. “Hey, we were _just _talking about you and Bill. Tit for tat,” he says, and she smiles a little more. “And also, I don’t mind you knowing about it Bev,” he says, softer. “I wanted to tell you _so_ much, back then. Even when we were on the roof, when I told you I was bisexual – I chickened out of telling you.”

He looks at her, feeling another wave of gratitude and affection for her, and how much she cares. She just looks deeply relieved. “This is so not a rebuke, but you could have told me. You and Mike were – still are, in fact – two of my favourite people in the world. I would’ve been thrilled for you,” she says, earnest and quiet.

He looks away for a moment, and then back, feeling rueful again. “I couldn’t, though. Because I was barely coping with how quickly it started and how quickly it ended and if I told you – you’d know how much I felt for him, and I was trying to pack those feelings away, not fling them everywhere. It wasn’t because – It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you, ok?” he says, and she smiles, understanding.

“I know,” she says. “So…don’t tell me if it’s too much for you right now, but…why did it end so fast then?” she asks, slowly, an empathetic look in her eyes. “I just remember Mike telling me about this person that he was in love with. He was about the happiest I’ve ever seen him, and you know he was a pretty happy looking guy normally.”

He smiles, sadly. “Well, I’ve already told you my Patty drama tonight. You might as well hear the Mike stuff too, I guess. If you can’t get enough of me ruining my own life.” His voice trembles, but maybe he’s cried so much tonight he’s tapped out. Wouldn’t that be nice.

“You wanna sit down though?” he asks, gesturing at the kitchen stools. She nods and they walk around the counter to sit in them.

He takes a breath, looks at her. “Let me tell you about prom night, although I’ll leave out the gory details,” he says, attempting his usual wry smile.

Bev grimaces. “If there are any, please do. You’re talking about my brother here.” She grins. “Also, I knew I was right about prom night.”

“Do you wanna hear the story or not?” he scolds, and she nods, still grinning. He smiles, and it’s a strange feeling. Willingly ripping the lid off a box he’d taped up and shoved into a cupboard a long time ago. One that, to be fair, inched closer and closer to falling out of that mental cupboard every day he spent with Mike.

*

_“I’m fine, Stan. I’m fuckin’ fine,” Richie protests, swaying where he stands. _

_Stan glares at him. He’s obviously not fine. He’s drunk – he’d snuck a fucking hip flask into Prom, because of course he did – and he’s gotten poor Ben drunk too. _

_Mike had been trying to keep an eye on them. He had managed when they were all dancing together, having fun, but then people had peeled off with partners, and Mike had been asked to dance by one girl, and then another, and he’d gone with it. _

_He and Mike had pulled Ben and Richie outside, mainly to stop them attracting the attention of the head – school might be pretty much finished, but they didn’t want to risk anything. _

_Ben was a much more pliable drunk than Richie. Mike had him sitting down against the wall, taking in the outside air. He was also less drunk than Richie, who was attempting to fight his way past Stan to get back into the gym. _

_“Come on, Stan, I gotta get back in there – I gotta – “ he says angrily, drunkenly uncoordinated and limby as a newborn deer. _

_“What? You’re not going back in there. You’ll get yourself expelled for fuck’s sake,” Stan tells him, hands on his arms to try and steady him._

_“You think you can take me, Stan the Man? Stanislavsky? Stan Urine?” Richie says, pushing him. It’s not hard. Stan scowls at him, mostly because the last nickname is his all-time most hated and Richie knows this. _

_“Any day, Richie, but I don’t want to fight. I want to get you to bed, because you’re drunk and you need to sleep it off,” he replies drily. _

_Richie bats his eyelashes clumsily at Stan. “Ooh, Stan, I had no idea – “ he says, in a silly voice, and Stan narrows his eyes. Richie pauses. “They’re playing –“ he says. _

_Stan listens out. It’s muffled, out here, but it sounds like The Cranberries. That one song – maybe it’s on one of Richie’s mixes? _

_Richie holds up a finger, like he’s going to say something but then he opens his mouth and vomits on Stan’s shoes. _

_“Fucking hell, Richie!” he shouts, stepping back but not fast enough to avoid the spray. He looks down. His shoes are wrecked. His pants have avoided the worst of it, but there’s definite splashback. _

_He looks back to yell some more at Richie, but Richie is standing there, suddenly looking so sick and forlorn, his anger quietens._

_“Ah fuck, Stan, I’m sorry,” Richie says, and he sounds it. _

_Stan nods, and gives him a serious look. “I’m gonna give you a pass for all your shit tonight because you’re clearly going through something, but we’re gonna talk about this later, alright? Just nod for yes.” _

_Richie is smart enough to just nod. _

_“Are your parents home?” Stan asks him. _

_Richie nods again. “My parets – parenst - parents. They’re not going to like this, haha,” he says, with a fake laugh. “Who cares?”_

_Stan swears under his breath. “Ok, well, mine aren’t. So you crash at mine, I’ll call your parents and tell them we’ve decided to watch some movies, and you’ll be home tomorrow morning.”_

_Richie sways a little, but smiles. “Thanks Stan,” he says feebly. More worryingly, he doesn’t even add a nickname._

_He still looks miserable. Stan feels for him – he’s pretty sure he knows what Richie’s going through, even though they’ve never talked about it – at least until the stale, putrid smell of vomit wafts up from his shoes. Then he feels less emotionally generous. _

_He was supposed to be inside, dancing with Rachel. He’d gone to get them drinks, and Mike had alerted him to the situation, and now instead of using the empty house with Rachel, he is going to be putting a drunk Richie to bed. It wasn’t exactly the romantic evening he had planned. Then again, he and Rachel had been kind of off-kilter all night. He wasn’t exactly sad to get away._

_He can’t let Richie get in trouble. Richie’s gotten him out of trouble before. They might be deeply annoyed with each other sometimes, but they still have to help. _

_Mike comes up to them supporting Ben. Ben looks a little green around the gills, but Mike looks – and smells – vomit free. _

_“So, what are we doing? I can drive them home if you want to go back in. I promise I’m stone cold sober,” he says, and smiles a little. He’s so steady and competent, and Stan is suddenly very grateful he’s here to help. _

_Mike looks at Stan’s ruined shoes, but surprisingly not with disgust, even though they smell like a decomposing animal carcass. “That looks bad. Do you want a lift home as well?_

_Stan half-smiles. “I’m thinking we kill two birds with one stone. Richie needs somewhere parentless to crash, I need to not smell like a chemical toilet, could you drop us back to mine?”_

_“Right, your parents are out of town too,” Mike says, nodding. “Sounds like a plan. Richie seems like he might crash any minute so we should probably get moving.” _

_Stan looks at Richie, whose eyelids are fluttering closer to shut with every moment and is still swaying. “Good point.” _

_Mike smiles and for a moment, it makes him forget he’s covered in puke and tired from trying to corral a drunken Richie. _

_Then Mike nods behind him, looking suddenly serious. He turns to see Rachel, arms crossed. Not looking happy at all. _

_“What the fuck, Stan?” she hisses. “You went off for drinks, and you disappear, and you’re just – “ she continues furiously, and then stops, wrinkling her nose. “You smell like death –“ she looks down, and jumps back a little. “God, did you throw up? Have you been drinking?”_

_“It’s not mine,” he says irritably. He’s truly not in the mood for this shit. “Richie’s the drunk one. He threw up on me.” _

_She notices Richie, and recoils. He grins drunkenly at her. “Rachel’s here! Hi, Rachel!”_

_“Shut the hell up, Richie,” she snaps. “You’ve made sure my date can’t come back inside.”_

_She looks back at Stan. “He needs to go home,” she says, with finality. _

_Stan feels silently grateful, and a little surprised, that she agrees. He softens. “I’m sorry I left you, I was getting us drinks and then Mike was worried about Ben and Richie and thought we needed to get them out before they got into trouble.”_

_Rachel looks around at Ben, who Mike is now helping up. “Yeah, well clearly they need to get out of here. Is Mike driving them home?”_

_Stan nods. “Yeah, and I’m really, really sorry, Rach –“ he says, apprehensively. _

_She anticipates it before he finishes, a horrified look on her face. She shakes her head. “No – no Stan, you better not be fucking thinking what I think you’re thinking – don’t you dare say it –“ _

_He looks at her, remorseful, but continues on anyway. “I think Richie should come back with me tonight – I’m sorry, I know it wasn’t the plan, but he needs to sleep it off.”_

_“So drop him off at his own house! Did you somehow forget what _our _plans were, Stan?” she says, meaningfully, voice rising with panic._

_He sighs, tiredly. “He can’t go back to his house like this, Rach. His parents will freak.” _

_Rachel throws her arms up. “How is that your problem, Stan?”_

_“Because he’s my friend! We look out for each other!” he replies, frustrated. _

_She rolls her eyes. “You know what? I am so fucking sick of your tragic little island of misfit toys, and how obsessed you all are with each other!” she shouts at him, and glares at Mike, Ben and Richie, behind him as well. “That goes for you assholes, too! I’m so sick of coming second to them, Stan!”_

_“Hey, don’t call my friends assholes!” he retorts, furiously. _

_She glares at him, and her eyes are watery but he’s having a hard time feeling bad for her when he’s feeling so angry. _

_She folds her arms again and steels her gaze. _

_“Are you going with them?” she asks, icily. _

_He looks at her, frustrated. “They’re my friends, I’m not leaving them.”_

_Rachel throws up her hands, furiously, glaring at him like an old witch about to cast a hex. “Then we’re fucking over, alright Stan? I’m so fucking done with this co-dependent bullshit,” she says, bitterly cold. _

_“Seriously? Because I care about my friends?” he says, shocked and hurt. He shouldn’t continue, but he does. “Or because you don’t care about any of yours nearly as much?”_

_She narrows her eyes so much they’re almost slits, coldness turning into hot anger in her expression. Before he can duck, she slaps him in the face, turns on her heel and storms off, back in the direction of the prom. _

_In a horribly ironic twist of fate, Stan recognises the song playing distantly from the gym. Bon Jovi power-ballading, “Yeah I will love you, baby – always and I'll be there – forever and a day, always – “ _

_He lets out a frustrated groan, and rubs his eyes. He’s wearing contacts and they feel sore. “I fucking hate Bon Jovi,” he says to himself, breathing heavy, exhausted and coursing with adrenaline and emotion. _

_He turns back to the boys. Mike looks anxious. Even Richie and Ben look a little nervous, although Richie seems barely cognisant of what’s just happened. _

_No one says anything. “Well, are we going or what?” he says fiercely, still panting a little. No one disagrees, and he helps Mike support the other two into the truck, Ben saying he’d appreciate getting some air in the back so Richie and him can share the cab’s passenger seat. _

_*_

_They drop Ben off first because his house is closer. _

_“You sure you’re alright to go home?” Stan asks, as he and Mike help him down from the truck. “I’m sure I could find a spare mattress at mine.” _

_Ben shakes his head, seemingly less drunk. He’d gotten the worst up outside the gym and the ride back in the truck bed seems to have sobered him up a bit. _

_“No, I’m alright,” Ben says, sounding tired. “It’s just my mom home tonight, and she’ll most likely have fallen asleep already. Her hospital shift would’ve ended about two hours ago, I think.” _

_Ben seems deeply exhausted, kind of washed out. Stan knows why, even if they don’t really talk about it. It’s painful to think he can’t do anything about it, that Ben’s hurting over something that isn’t anyone’s fault. It just is what it is. _

_Mike looks at him, eyes big with concern, and reaches out an arm, resting it on Ben’s soft bicep._

_“Are you ok, though? I know it was kind of a rough night. Stan’s happy to have you round if you want to be around people,” he asks, seriously. The level of care and concern Mike has for them all is always a wonder to watch, and as Stan watches it he feels a deep pang in his heart. _

_“Yeah, absolutely, if you can put up with Richie’s snores you’re welcome to come back with us,” Stan agrees. “Really, Ben.”_

_Ben smiles, a little. “Thanks, you guys. You’re so – you’re so good,” he says, and looks unfocused for a moment, but then refocuses on them. His eyes are still a little sad, but he sounds genuine. “I love you guys, y’know? And soon I’ll be on this internship and I'll miss you when you're at college, but I know it’s gonna be great because you guys are great, and kind, and the right people will see that and love you.” _

_Stan feels another pang. He doesn’t want to think about leaving everyone soon and meeting new people. He doesn’t want new people to love and to love him, yet. _

_Ben colours, after his impromptu speech. “I’m sorry, I’m still a bit drunk,” he says sheepishly. _

_“It’s fine,” Mike says beaming, and they both hug him. _

_“We love you too, alright,” Stan says, smiling to himself. _

_Ben sounds surprised and happy as they release him, replying, “Wow, coming from you? That means a lot.” _

_Stan grins, but half-heartedly rolls his eyes. “If I said it all the time it’d lose its meaning.” _

_Mike chuckles, very quietly. _

_*_

_They’re driving back to Stan’s now, and were it not for the radio being on in the truck it would be very quiet. Richie is basically asleep next to Stan, lying against the window. He had woken up just long enough to demand they put it on his favourite alternative station. _

_For some reason Stan is just sitting in silence, focusing on the songs on the radio, instead of trying to talk to Mike. But Mike isn’t really talking to him either._

_It’s not a cold silence, exactly. He doesn’t know what it is, really – he can’t even see the shape of it. _

_He listens to the radio. It’s a song by that band that Richie likes. They’re a bit mopey, but Stan finds he’s liking this particular mopey song. _

_“Well, I walk in the air between the rain. Through myself and back again.” _

_Stan idly remembers a book from his childhood, a book of Jewish children’s stories featuring a rabbi that convinces a group of twenty-nine witches that he is magical and walked between the raindrops to stay dry on his journey to find them and wonders if the lyric is a reference to that. Maybe he’s misjudged the mopey band. _

_“Round here, we’re carving out our names. Round here, we all look the same.” _

_He looks at Mike. Mike is looking steadily at the road. _

_He wants to say something, but he’s not sure what, so he doesn’t. _

_He keeps thinking about Rachel’s face just before they left. He was probably a bit of an asshole, now that he thinks about it. She wasn’t great either, but he wasn’t – kind. Mike would have been. He’d like to be more like that. Less frustrated with people’s bullshit. _

_He’s less pumped with the adrenaline from it and is starting to feel guilty, but he also still feels like – he could have been nicer, sure, but he’s never going to regret choosing to help his friends. And he’s still mad that she yelled at them. _

_He’s surprised by the intensity that the low-key song has worked up, and it catches on something inside him as he looks out at the dark streets and houses he’s over-familiar with. _

_“I, I can't see nothing, nothing round here, you catch me if I'm falling, you catch me if I'm falling, will you catch me?” the singer spits out, in an emotional torrent._

_Stan gulps, and almost wishes Richie was awake, sucking up all the oxygen like he does in any given situation. _

_There’s quiet for a moment and then Stan realises Mike’s stopping the truck because they’re at his house. _

_Mike looks at him. “So…you doing ok?” he asks, concerned. _

_“With?” Stan asks, momentarily forgetting the entire night. Mike raises his eyebrows. “Oh – the, uh – yeah.” _

_He doesn’t say anything for a moment. “I mean, I don’t feel great right now, but I’m not sorry for leaving.” _

_Mike looks sympathetic. “I’m sorry you’re feeling bad. Maybe there’s a chance you can make up?” _

_Stan chuckles hollowly. “Yeah, I doubt it.” He thinks for a moment. “But I guess…I’m sorry for hurting her, but I actually think it’s a good thing that we broke up. We’re both going to college soon, and we weren’t going to do long-distance, you know?”_

_Mike nods. “Yeah, I think even Bill and Bev are having to accept that.” _

_Stan nods, suddenly feeling sad. He and Rachel might have been pretty snippy with each other towards the end, but Bill and Bev seem to still be pretty deeply in love. It must be a lot scarier and more heartbreaking, having to decide to leave someone you’re still very much in love with. He’s not sure he could. _

_“So,” Mike starts, and coughs. “If it wasn’t for…college…you’d want to be with her?”_

_Stan stops. He’s not sure what Mike’s asking. “I – I mean, I loved her –“ _

_“Loved her?” Mike echoes, in a strange kind of voice. _

_“Of course I loved her, Mike,” Stan says, slightly indignant. “I dated her for long enough.”_

_"Yeah, Stan, I remember." Mike says and there’s still something strange in his tone. “Loved. Past tense.” _

_Past tense. Past tense. Past tense. Past tense._

_He’s speechless for a moment. “Are you actually – “ he starts, and then Richie stirs, making him jump. _

_“I need to get out,” he says ominously, and Stan dives for the door handle to let him out. He stumbles, just managing not to fall and throws up again. _

_Stan looks back at Mike. _

_“We should probably – “ he starts. _

_“Get him inside? Yeah,” Mike agrees, grimacing over at Richie. _

_*_

_They lay Richie down in Stan’s bed, figuring it’s easier than looking after him while they organise sheets and make up the couch. Stan threatens bloody murder if he throws up again, and provides him with a bucket. Richie agrees monosyllabically before passing out cold. _

_They stand around awkwardly in the hall._

_"So, you're free to go now," he says, with a chuckle that comes out sounding weird even to his ears. "Thanks for, uh, helping with Richie. You didn't need to stay, but you really helped." _

_Mike smiles. "I wanted to, it's ok."_

_The hallway is actually very narrow, Stan realises. It's narrow and he's probably asphyxiating poor, very helpful Mike with the acidic stench from his shoes and the bottom of his pants, which he hasn't had a chance to change, and Mike is too polite to mention it._

_"But I'm sure you want to be getting back. I smell so bad I might throw up next, so I'm not sure how you're still here," he bursts out, quickly. "You should probably go."_

_Mike expression falls, just the smallest bit, but Stan notices. "Right - I should be - getting back," he says, awkwardly. _

_He turns and walks out of the open door, onto the porch._

_"Wait, Mike," he calls, not really knowing what he's going to say. _

_Mike turns, looking surprised. He walks back through the front door, but stays near the threshold. Keeps a healthy few feet between them. _

_"You're not going back to the farmhouse are you? Because I'm pretty sure that Bill and Bev had -" he starts, and stops at Mike's look._

_"I know that, jeez," he says, not annoyed but looking vaguely disturbed. "I promised Bev she could have the house to herself." _

_"Where are you staying? Were you supposed to go with Ben?" He asks, instantly guilty. "You shouldn't have come back to help, I'm sorry." _

_Mike shakes his head. "I wasn't staying at Ben's, don't worry about it. I should probably -"_

_"Where are you going, then?" Stan asks, confused._

_Mike looks uncomfortable, and shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe just drive around for a bit. If I really need to crash I can sleep in the truck. Look at the stars. I have a sleeping bag. It's fine." _

_Stan gives him a look. "You can't be serious. I have a spare mattress, just stay here." _

_Mike rubs his neck, awkward. He looks at Stan. _

_"Do you want me to stay?" _

_Stan is taken aback by the question. "Uh - yeah. Yes. I wouldn't have offered otherwise." _

_Mike smiles, something in his eyes. "Ok, then thanks." _

_He walks further inside, then stops, looking decisively at Stan. "Back in the car - what were you gonna say?"_

_Stan is surprised at the way his heart jumps at this, like missing a step._

_He opens and closes his mouth. He decides to go ahead with it. He sets his jaw and looks at Mike. "Back there - for a moment, it sounded like you were mad at me. For Rachel."_

_Mike looks strangely, quietly incredulous. "Why would I be mad at you?" _

_Stan wasn't expecting this response, and it makes him sort of indignant. His face works._

_"Come on, you know why," he gets out in a strangled voice._

_"Do you want me to be mad?" Mike asks, sounding more annoyed._

_"No, of course not," he replies, feeling like things are coming out twisted. "I just - I don't know -" _

_Mike looks kind of hurt, actually, more than that, he looks annoyed. Stan feels even more guilty and wishes he'd never started talking. _

_Mike looks away and then back at him. “Because, you know, if I was mad – which I’m not, but if I was – it wouldn’t really be your business, Stan.” He stares defiantly at him. _

_Stan feels that pressure-cooker feeling that he gets sometimes, a need to defend himself – but to what charge he doesn’t really know. _

_He’s speechless again, for a moment. No one says anything._

_“I did love Rachel, ok, and you’re right, I don’t now – but you can’t be mad at me for it, ok?” he says, annoyed but realising there’s a definite edge of desperation in it. _

_Mike looks incredulous again. Maybe more so now. “Stan, what the hell?, I’m not mad, but I’m getting kind of sick of you telling me I can’t be. You know that’s not fair.” He says the last words quietly, hurt. His eyes are big and hurt too, and he can’t look at Stan like that. He never looks at Stan like that. _

_It’s unbearable. _

_The pressure cooker shrieks and Stan bursts. Something he’d been trying not to say for a year and a half. “Not fair? I only asked Rachel out because you started dating Denise Evans! Not even a month after that stupid party!”_

_He really cannot believe he’s actually said it out loud. It wasn’t like he didn’t _like_ the idea of dating Rachel – they used to be pretty friendly at temple, and he’d always thought she was pretty. Although, he’s a little ashamed to admit to himself, he noticed it more when she got her braces off. But he’d known – and then later, secretly feared – that Mike being more popular would give him access to a number of attractive girls who he could date. And he’d been right. _

_“A cheerleader? Really?” he blurts, like an aftershock of stupid words. It’s almost like he’s watching himself outside his body. He’s not being fair at all, he knows it. But he can’t seem to stop his bottled-up feelings about the whole thing coming out now. _

_Mike looks speechless with incredulity, shaking his head slightly. He raises a hand, makes some kind of attempted gesture like squeezing an imaginary stress ball, and then speaks. _

_“I can’t believe you’re getting mad at me for dating someone. For four months, which is way less than…I can’t believe you’re the one telling me that what I did after that was unfair,” he says, just sounding bone-deep tired and hurt. _

_Stan would rather he was angry. He’s apparently possessed by some kind of monster tonight. “Only because she moved away! She –“ he says, strangled. He’s screaming at himself mentally to stop talking. “You went and found someone else who could understand you better than I could –“ _

_Mike raises his eyebrows. “Wow, really?” he says, with a dry humour that’s unlike him. “No, actually you’re right – we did bond over how weird it was that even the people that liked us were trying to force their only black friends to go out with each other.” _

_There is a deeply uncomfortable silence._

_Mike looks at him and his eyes are misty, and Stan would like a do-over of everything from the moment they left Ben. He’s not even sure what he’d say. Not this. This isn’t Denise’s fault. She was nice, and Stan would have probably gotten along really well with her if just seeing her hadn’t killed him a little inside. _

_“Anyway, this isn’t about Denise. It’s about what happened after the party. I thought I did what you wanted,” he says, like he’s run out of energy and is barely surviving on fumes. “I understood, you know. It was all too much. But please don’t tell me I’ve been unfair, because I did what you wanted.” _

_“I –“ Stan says, and his courage fails him. He wants to reach out and comfort Mike, but he’s just a little too far away. He wants to not be the reason Mike’s upset. He wants to not be the reason two people are upset, because he can’t seem to get anything right tonight. _

_Mike looks at him for a moment, then looks down and back up. “I think I should probably go, Stan. We’ll be ok. In the morning.” He doesn’t even look angry, just disappointed. And as he has been steadily since this whole conversation started, hurt in an expected kind of way. _

_Stan can’t believe this is happening again. That even though he’s a nightmare of a friend, and has just gotten mad at him – after he gave him a lift home and helped with Richie, which would have sucked way more on his own – he’s trying to make things ok with them. _

_Well not this time. This time he’s sober, though he feels like this would be easier if he wasn’t – and he knows for certain that his parents are out of town, together, and won’t have a chance to inadvertently ruin things. _

_Mike turns to go again, and Stan blurts out – “I fucked up, Mike. I’m sorry.” He wishes his voice didn’t sound so awkward and needy, but there it is. _

_He watches Mike’s shoulders stiffen as he pauses, not turning around yet. He waits. Mike turns slowly, looking like he’s not sure what to expect. _

_“I couldn’t handle being drunk, and feeling so much for you, and the thought of my dad finding us, and the shock of finding out that horrible thing he did,” Stan says, anguished. Why didn’t he say this ages ago? But he’s saying it now, even if it is too late. Better late than never. _

_Mike is looking caught off guard now, but the hurt in his eyes is slowly being replaced by something softer. He comes a little closer. _

_Stan continues, emboldened. “And it fucked up my relationship with him. But I never wanted to fuck up my relationship with you, and I’m afraid that in my fear of doing that, I really, really hurt you. And I was selfish, and I didn’t give you space to forget about it, and I’m just really, really, fucking sorry, Mike,” he says, and he realises his voice is shaking a bit. _

_Mike comes closer, eyes shining, and wraps him in a hug. Stan is so relieved he could cry. If he does, it’s hidden in the shoulder of Mike’s tux jacket._

_Mike releases him, so he can look at Stan and tip his chin up gently to look back at Mike._

_“Hey,” he says, almost unbearably warm. “I’m really not mad, ok? It was bad timing. It’s not your fault you learned that about your Dad.”_

_Stan sighs. “Yeah…honestly I don’t know what we would’ve done if I hadn’t freaked out.” _

_Mike smiles, “Yeah. We couldn’t exactly have gone on dates at the diner, I guess. Or the ice-cream shop. Can you imagine?”_

_Stan chuckles, darkly. “A Jewish boy and a black boy? I think everyone would drop dead out of sheer horror and confusion.” _

_Mike returns a rueful smile. “Certainly would have made for an interesting senior year,” he says, moving his face closer to Stan’s. _

_Stan’s heart is thrumming with the kind of anticipation he had a little over a year and a half ago, sitting in the upstairs area of the synagogue, trying to work up the drunken nerve to tell a friend something very important. _

_“Oh yeah. Although, I fear for all those study sessions we had this year, if we’d been together. My GPA would be real bad,” he replies quietly, smirking, moving his face closer. _

_Mike reaches out to hold Stan’s face in his hands. Their foreheads touch, and Mike closes his eyes for a moment, looking blissful. “Oh yeah, no Princeton for you,” he says, with quiet laughter in his tone. He opens his eyes, looking very closely at Stan. _

_Half of Stan wants to make the move now, because he feels like he’s on fire – but the other half feels floaty and wants to stay like this, just looking at him, this close, for a lot longer._

_"You could’ve taken me to Prom,” Mike says. And it’s the kind of thing that’s funny precisely because it’s so obviously impossible. Which not everyone finds funny, but Stan gets his sense of humour from his zayde, and he knows that sometimes if you don’t laugh you’ll never stop crying._

_“Mmm,” Stan says, happily. “I know you’re joking, but – wish I’d gone with you instead. Would have had – mostly – a way better night.” _

_Mike chuckles at this. He is very close. He blinks, and suddenly, he’s not feeling Mike’s forehead against his, and he physically reacts to the loss of warmth and contact by moving forward. “Hey, where d’you –“ he starts, looking accusingly at Mike. “I think you’re forgetting something.” _

_Mike has a strange, wild, excited look on his face. “Can you wait for me? I need to go get something. I’ll be like, twenty minutes tops,” he says, excitedly, beaming. _

_“What? Where are you going?” Stan asks, confused and a little put out that he’s not still five seconds away from being kissed. _

_Mike grins. “Just trust me? And maybe change out of those shoes and pants.”_

_Stan looks down and remembers that he smells like a compost bin, and Mike willingly stood very close to him for a while, and smiles in a helpless, happy sort of way. _

_“Twenty minutes tops?” he asks. _

_“Don’t fall asleep, ok? And don’t put your pjs on yet,” Mike says, with a grin, and then he takes off back to his truck. _

_*_

_Twenty minutes later, Stan has had a shower and started soaking his pants, put his shoes in a plastic bag and thrown them out, in case one of his parents sees his formal shoes all sticky and smelly in the trash and assumes that he was the one drinking._

_Per Mike’s somewhat mysterious instructions, he’s just put on a different pair of slacks and a long-sleeve button-up instead of changing for bed. There is a knock on the door as he’s aimlessly watching some cop show on tv, not really paying attention. _

_His heart jumps and he rushes to the door, but attempts to open it with a modicum of cool. This goes out the window when he sees Mike there, beaming. _

_He doesn’t have anything with him. _

_“What did you go and do?” he asks, suspiciously, letting him in. _

_“You look nice,” Mike replies, and something in him melts, making him smile like an idiot. _

_“Is Big Bertha still in the living room, or will you have to venture into your room to get her?” Mike asks, somewhat enigmatically. _

_“Living room,” Stan replies, raising an eyebrow. “But honestly, I was just in my room grabbing clothes. Richie’s dead to the world. You know what he’s like. You could probably host a marching band in there without waking him right now.”_

_Mike just grins. “That’s good.” _

_He spots the tape deck in the living room and darts over to it. _

_“You know, you could just use the sound system?” Stan points out, half heartedly, grinning._

_Mike covers the speakers of the tape deck like a child’s ears. “Hush, don’t insult Bertha that way.”_

_Stan can’t help but laugh. _

_Mike takes a tape out of his pocket, and Stan wonders if this is what he rushed off to get. That would be crazy though, all that for one cassette tape. He has tapes here. He’s confused. Mike puts it in the player, and turns around again. _

_Then the song starts playing, and all he can do is look at Mike in open-mouthed surprise. “You –“ he says, and can’t quite find the words. _

_They’d been listening to it once on the radio, for the first time. They’d been smoking pot with Richie, which wasn’t something he did all the time but it did have the benefit of quieting his constant anxiety – college, girlfriend, friends, parents, grades, small town, temple, hatred, nightmares, unresolved trauma – and Richie had already known what it was. _

_“Ohhh, I like this song,” Mike had said, mellow, and laughed. “Do you know it, Richie?” _

_Richie nodded slowly, stretched out on the cushions at the clubhouse. “It’s good, isn’t it?” _

_There was something soft in his voice, soft and slightly cracked. “I’ll put it on the mix I’m making you, Mikey Mike.” _

_Mike beamed, loose and open. “Thanks, Rich.”_

_Stan looked at him as they listened to the song quietly. Mike looked back. “Pretty, right?” he whispered, stoned and happy. Stan had smiled. Mike’s pupils were dilated, his eyes had a kind of sparkle to them. “Yeah,” he whispered back, slowly, letting the music wash over him._

_The slow, strummed guitar chords of the song’s intro play as Mike extends a formal hand out to him, smiling. “It’s prom night. Care to dance?” _

_Stan is still speechless, but he’s smiling like an idiot. He takes Mike’s hand and they start slow dancing. _

_“Fade into you, I think it’s strange you never knew,” the singer sings dreamily from the speakers. _

_He’s letting Mike lead. He’s never been the one to get held. He thinks he could get used to it._

_“Did you hear when they played this, earlier?” Stan asks, resting against Mike’s collarbone. _

_“Yep,” Mike says, an element of sad humour in his tone. “I – saw you and Rachel dancing to it. You looked – cute.” _

_Stan lifts his head to look at Mike. “She didn’t get it. The song. I never wished it was you and me dancing more than that moment.” _

_Mike beams at him, the glad glint of his dark eyes back. “Well, imagine how I felt,” he says, his tone teasing but Stan can tell there’s more than a kernel of truth to it. _

_“Is that why you ran back home to get the tape?” Stan asks. “You didn’t run into –“ _

_Mike grimaces slightly, but can’t stop smiling. “No. Still at prom,” he says. “I figured we deserved a dance, at least.” _

_Stan can’t stop smiling either. “Good call, Mike,” he says, snuggling back up to him. _

_“You put your hands into your head, and then its smiles cover your heart,” goes the speakers. _

_Suddenly, Stan has a small, soft epiphany. It shouldn’t really be a revelation, but there’s been a lot going on tonight, and he’s only managed to process it all in this moment. _

_He feels Mike’s strong arms around him, and nestles into his chest, and the whole town, the whole world is just the two of them. “I think I’m in love with you,” he says softly, surprising even himself with his forthrightness. _

_He isn’t really the kind of person to just say it, and not insanely soon – although he realises, he’s not sure when he started. Just that he realised around the start of eleventh grade, and it’s been growing since, clearly, even when he didn’t mean it to. _

_“Oh,” Mike says, in the kind of soft, surprised way he did a year and half earlier in the darkened synagogue. Stan pulls up to look at him. He looks slightly stunned, and nothing short of radiantly happy._

_The song has ticked over while he wasn’t paying attention, and he catches a line about, “I know I've felt like this before, but now I'm feeling it even more, because it came from you,” and if Stan didn’t definitively know better, he’d think Richie had made this mix specifically for this moment. Or to declare his own love for one Michael Hanlon. _

_Mike tips Stan’s face up gently and leans forward so their heads are touching again. _

_“You make me feel calm,” Stan whispers, and he wants to shout it from the rooftops but he also can’t make himself any louder. “And safe. You still do.”_

_Mike couldn’t look any happier, but he doesn’t say anything. He just leans forward and closes the few inches of distance between them, kissing Stan soundly, and something hot like the fuse of a firecracker – more intensely than the first time, even – explodes inside of him. _

_Later, Stan leads Mike into the basement. _

_“I haven’t been down here in forever,” Mike says, grinning as they go down the stairs._

_Stan turns back to face him, feeling kind of embarrassed, now that’s he’s here. It had seemed like a good idea when they were upstairs, making out on the couch. “I get it, if it’s weird. I just thought, I’d – I’d already made it up –“ _

_Mike is staring at the area where the futon is, open mouthed. “You did all this?” _

_Stan nods, feeling himself reddening. “It’s not much, it’s just some of those twinkly lights we bought last winter. And some flower petals.” He’d also washed the nicest linen he was allowed to use for down here and made the bed, but it felt petty to say that. _

_Mike looks at it, now they’re closer to it, and then looks back at him. “I can’t quite decide if I’m mad at Rachel or deeply grateful to her. I mean, she let _you_ go, but then again she let you go.” _

_Stan smiles at him. He likes seeing Mike in the warm, low lights. “I know the feeling.” _

_Mike kisses him again. That’s also something he could get used to. The hot feeling returns._

_He kisses Mike for a little longer. Any moment now something awkward is bound to happen, and kissing is one thing but he doesn’t want to freak Mike out, so he pulls away. _

_“So, uh, I just thought you’d probably like to sleep somewhere nicer than the upstairs couch,” he says, voice higher than he’d like._

_Mike grins at him, taking his hand so he can’t pull away too far, and Stan feels genuinely weak in the knees, which he had previously thought was just an expression. “Yeah, it’s very nice here. I’d like that,” he says, and there’s a slight, but definite teasing tone to his voice. _

_He looks at Mike, semi-suspicious, but still unable to keep from smiling. “What?”_

_Mike feigns innocence, laughing a little. Then his expression becomes just as caring, but more serious. “I – um – would understand, if you didn’t want to do this, tell me honestly. It’s been a big night…” he says, and laughs self-consciously, looking down and then up. “But I was thinking…it might get kind of lonely, down here. By myself. If you wanted to – stay – that might be. Nice.” _

_ Stan’s heart beats fast. He tries to think about why that would be a bad idea. Even if it was just more fooling around with each other. But who is he kidding, the reason he’d suggested going to the basement wasn’t just because he wanted to show Mike a spare bed. He’d set this up, with a fairly romantic evening in mind, he just hadn’t realised who he was making it for at the time. _

_Mike looks suddenly guilty. “I’m sorry, Stan, I didn’t mean to – obviously, I wouldn’t ever want to make you feel pressured to – I just, I think I’m a bit hormone-crazy from earlier, we don’t have to –“_

_“No, I want to,“ Stan interrupts, heart beating fast, but not in the horrible-anxiety way he’s too familiar with. This feels like courage. “Because we won’t have this chance again, Mike, and you think you’re going crazy? I am going out of my mind right now, I just didn’t want to freak you out –“_

_Mike grins and kisses him, effectively cutting off his train of thought and most of his higher brain function. _

_After a moment, Mike pulls back, slightly. _

_“Nghh,” Stan says. _

_“So you have –“ Mike says, with slight awkwardness. _

_It takes a moment for Stan’s hormone-clouded teenage brain to register his meaning. “Uh – oh. Right. Yes. Next to the bed. Everything important.” _

_Mike chuckles softly. “Everything important?” _

_Stan laughs, sheepish. “I was just trying to be prepared.” He pauses. “It’s not weird for you that I set this up for someone else? A girl?” he asks, and then feels even more embarrassed. _

_Mike grins. “No, not unless it is for you?” _

_Stan shakes his head. “I really only set it up because I thought it would be romantic and nice, and she wasn’t going to do something like this for me any time soon. Sometimes being the boyfriend sucks,” he says, and then realises the inherent ridiculousness of that statement given his current situation, and cringes, putting his hand over his face in shame. _

_Mike chuckles again, removing Stan’s hand and kissing it. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. I’ll make you cute romantic setups if you want.” _

_Stan stares at him, struck dumb by affection and just kisses him again. “I love you, Mikey,” he says into it. _

_Mike pulls back, just by an inch to reply. “I love you too, Stan. Although if you haven’t gotten that by now, I’d be seriously worried about you…” _

_Stan chuckles and pulls him closer so he can kiss him and start unbuttoning his white shirt. _

_*_

_Mike holds him after, and he lies on Mike’s chest and listens to his beating heart through his warm skin. He knows that logically it is some kind of hour, and that the sun will be up the normal amount of time after this hour that it normally is, and they will have to figure out where to go from here before then, maybe. But lying like this, he can’t quite believe it. That he can’t just stay here in this moment and have no one intrude on it, forever. _

_“So, what are we gonna do about Richie?” Mike asks after a while. They’ve been talking off and on, chilled out and comfortable in each other’s arms. _

_“Richie?” Stan asks, blankly. _

_“You know, currently passed out in your bed Richie? One of your best friends?” Mike teases. _

_Stan swears. “I completely forgot he was here. Wow.” He sits up slightly to prop himself up on one hand so he can look at Mike quizzically. “What are we doing about him?”_

_Mike rolls his eyes, exaggeratedly and Stan grins. Mike almost never does that. He looks back at Stan. “At some point tomorrow morning he’s going to wake up and go looking for you, and find you not crashing on the couch. Do you want me to be here?” _

_Stan feels, impossibly, a kind of physical pain at the idea of him leaving. “Yes,” he says immediately. Mike smiles, almost caught-off-guard, and Stan wants to kiss him again, but he senses this conversation is important. _

_Mike looks up at him, smiling so affectionately Stan almost can’t look directly at him. He can’t look away either. “I suppose what I mean is...this is new territory, and neither of us are naïve about what it means to be here, in this town. Do we tell the others? I know they at least wouldn’t hate us. But it might be kinda weird?” _

_Stan hates to admit it to himself, but he feels fingers of anxiety clawing at his gut the moment Mike brings up telling anyone. He looks down, studies a hair on Mike’s chest. “Do you think that maybe we could,” he says, and finds himself looking at Mike again. “Not tell anyone about it, right now? I just – I just – it’s not that I don’t trust them, you know I love them, but I’m – I don’t – I’m not sure I want anyone to – and it’s not because I’m ashamed of you, like, I would tell everyone if I didn’t think that was a good way to get us beaten up –“ _

_“Hey, hey,” Mike says gently, reaching a comforting hand up to his face. He hadn’t realised he’d been anxiety-babbling. “I agree, it’s ok. If you don’t want to tell anyone, I won’t tell anyone.” _

_Stan looks at him, still worried and wishing he wasn’t. “I mean anyone, though, Mikey,” he says quietly. “Not even Bev. Not yet, anyway.”_

_Mike looks surprised for a moment, then nods. “I promise.” _

_Stan smiles, and leans down to kiss him. _

_*_

Bev stares at Stan, open-mouthed, for a moment. True to his word, he’d left out the finer details of the night, not that he was the type to talk about that in great detail with anyone. But he’d left in enough that she knew what had happened.

“Oh my god, Stan,” she says, recovering. “That was a hell of a story. You went from 0-100 in like, one night,” she says, trying to keep quiet even as she’s digesting the new information.

Stan nods, feeling his cheeks warm. “Making up for lost time, I guess,” he says, and Bev smiles a little. “And, opportunities where both my parents were out? Extremely rare.”

Bev raises her eyebrows in understanding. “Fair enough, I guess, yeah.”

There’s a moment of quiet. She looks at him. “So, what happened?”

Stan sighs. “Well, not much else to say that you didn’t guess. We were together – secretly – for the summer until I left for Princeton.”

“But?” Bev asks, not missing a beat.

Stan looks at his empty glass for a moment, then looks back up. “We decided – well we both agreed, but Mike brought it up, early on – he knew I’d just gotten out of my longest relationship, and that we weren’t going to do long-distance, so jumping into a new one and doing that would be dumb. We both kind of realised that we’d barely get to see each other, with him at Maine U. Not with that eight-hour drive, and so we’d both be holding each other back once we were experiencing new things in college. We just – decided it would be the summer, and then that was it,” he says, matter-of-fact. Hadn’t stopped it hurting like hell at the time though. The day he’d left for college had been one of the worst days of his life, and even then that had included ‘almost being murdered by a serial killer’.

Bev looks sympathetic. “You couldn’t have _tried_ to do long-distance?”

Stan frowns. “Well, look at you and Bill. You knew the same thing we did.”

Bev nods. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But Bill and I had nearly four years…you only had maybe two and a half months.”

He nods, rueful. “Shit timing, I know. Wish I’d jumped before Rachel pushed me.”

Bev reaches over and squeezes his hand. She looks at him quizzically. “But you guys stayed in touch. Longer than any of us – he was your best man, wasn’t he?” Bev asks, and then pauses. “Did Patty ever know?” she asks, but gently.

He looks down, guilty. “I know it makes me look super bad, all of that but – it wasn’t meant to be like –“ he looks back up, and Bev looks sympathetic and sad. “I’m just – you know I’ve never been good at goodbyes…I thought, either we’d fall out of touch, or we’d get back –“ he says, and gulps. She puts a hand on his. He looks at her, grateful for it. “But, like I said, shit timing. And neither of us really wanted to bring it up, the further we got away from it - maybe out of self-preservation - and we started telling each other about our lives and who we were dating, and we sort of just – packed it away – and pretended we were friends like we used to be. And then it kind of _worked, _and college kept us busy, and by the time I met Pat sophomore year, it just seemed like it was so distant I didn’t need to tell her.”

He sighs. “Or maybe I was afraid. I don’t know. I didn’t tell her about Mike, even when I told her about myself. I was so afraid she wouldn’t get it, and she was so cool about it, and Mike had finally come to visit me in New Jersey and they’d gotten on well, and I think I was just – I was so afraid of pushing it, if I told her our history.”

“Right,” Bev says, understanding. She smiles at him, a little sadly. “You know I can’t judge. I shut people out of my life that I should have kept. Can’t blame you for doing the opposite.”

Stan nods, sombrely. “We didn’t see each other much in person in the last few years. A few times. He came to Atlanta a few times, and we all had dinner. But we were rarely in the same place, and we had our lives. It was mostly emails, and then the whole thing with Patty – I felt too…ashamed, to tell him, so a while back I just didn’t reply to his last email. Isn’t that stupid?”

Bev shakes her head, resolutely. “It’s not. You’d just had your worst breakup, with someone who you loved so much and had to break up with even though there wasn’t a relationship breakdown. Why would you want to make it more painful by talking about it with the one person who you’d already done all of that with?”

Stan stares at her, kind of in awe. She had this matter of fact way when they were kids, of putting things in perspective. “I never – thought of that.”

She smiles, lightly. “Maybe I should become a therapist. Mid-life career change.”

He grins, small but present. “You’ve certainly spent a lot of time listening to my problems tonight – or this morning, whatever.”

“Anytime, honey,” she says, squeezing his hand again. “You’re worth every minute.”

“Back at you,” he says, honestly. “It would be bad if I were your actual therapist, but I’m always here to listen as your friend, who happens to be professionally trained.”

Bev smiles. They’re quiet for a moment. She looks at him.

“So, are you going to do anything about it?” she asks, gently, but matter-of-fact again.

He looks at her, taken aback by the question. The answers die in his throat when he first tries to speak. “No. I don’t know,” he says, honestly. “Probably nothing.”

“Alright, Stan,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “But, you know, unlike my situation – “

He raises an eyebrow back. “In which you’re going to?”

She waves a hand dismissively. “In which I’m going to do nothing, because my marriage might be a black hole and a sham, but his probably isn’t – but unlike me,” she says, giving Stan a meaningful look. “Mike’s not married.”

Stan sighs. “Yeah. But I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MUCH DRAMA
> 
> As I'm not sure I'll be able to update this before all the holiday madness begins, happy holidays to you and yours (or whatever you're doing, hope it's enjoyable!) i hope this was a good early present haha


	6. Where Has My Fight Gone? What Keeps Us Burning When The Fire Is Long Gone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again in 2020!! There are several references to War and Peace in this chapter, which is funny because this fic is reaching the length of an 19th century novel written over a period of years, whoops! 
> 
> Enjoy this customarily lengthy update! (Title is a lyric from The Panics - Don't Fight It, which is on the playlist)

Richie wakes early, which he never likes doing.

He finds his glasses blearily, and looks at his phone. Realising he’s not going to get back to sleep anytime soon, he decides to go out for a smoke.

He grabs his jacket and his jeans and tries not to step on Bill, or wake anyone up as he leaves.

He sits on the front porch steps, his back against a banister, and stretches his legs out, cracking his neck. He’d done a fair amount of couch-surfing in his twenties, when he was starting out, doing improv and writing bits on the back of receipts, but his neck is reminding him how long ago that was.

He rustles around on the inside of his jacket for the cigarette, and finds them in his inside jacket pocket. His hand brushes a small, bulky thing and he suddenly remembers the letter.

He looks around surreptitiously. Everyone seems to be still asleep.

He looks at the letter again, feeling an illicit thrill of curiosity. He really shouldn’t open it.

For him, the thought _you shouldn’t do this _or _you’re not allowed to do this _has always been a red rag to a bull. It was always that way, from sneaking candy his parents expressly forbid after school to jumping off the cliff into the lake at the Barrens – especially once Bev had already done it. And it was that way now, opening this letter.

Of course, it might be the most mundane thing ever, now that he’s built it up.

_Dear Mike, I’m having a truly wild time at college, sometimes I study until past midnight. If things get REALLY crazy in my dorm of ivy-league nerds, we all stay up studying ALL NIGHT. Love, Stan._

He grins.

_Dear Mike, how is the history degree going? Things still happening in the usual order? I saw the common-spotted Blue Tit the other day (the only tit I will ever be near again) which I will now proceed to describe in excruciating detail…_

He grins wider, reminiscing. He and Stan had made sure they had gotten new email addresses when they left for college. Getting a reply from Stan had been one of the only things to make him less lonely when he’d been feeling the over-three-thousand-miles separating him from home (or the various other distances to points around the country where his friends were scattered.)

_Three thousand and forty-three miles. _

The number pops into his head like a line from an old song and Richie twitches.

It’s nothing, he tries to convince himself. What a random number to pop into your head, unrelated to anything important.

But he remembers turning it over and over and over in his mind. Working out the distance on a map, on a series of maps, actually doing the maths. The exact distance between UCSC, Santa Cruz, California and Yale University, New Haven, Connecticut.

Richie’s parents would pay for him to come home, but they wouldn’t pay for random trips out to upstate New York, so he had mostly only seen any of them in the New York-New Jersey area when they’d been home at the same time. He’d had Eddie’s email address, too, but for some reason it was harder for them to keep up. Emails weren’t the same as being right there with each other, making Eddie laugh and shout at him.

Richie shakes himself. He hasn’t even read it and the letter is making him sentimental and weird about college.

He looks around again, down at the envelope bearing Mike’s name and address in Stan’s neat hand.

“Fuck it,” he says, to himself, and opens the back. He definitely can’t give it back now, because it’s been very obviously opened.

There’s a letter in there - expected - and what looks like a cassette. He pulls out the cassette, and smirks.

“This is the thing you felt Mike needed to know about? Jeff Buckley?” he mutters. He thinks he remembers talking about Jeff Buckley with Stan, at some point in college, but maybe not. It’s hazy.

It’s _Grace. _Alright, as an album, but he’s never thought it was all that special. He sets it down next to him, bemused.

Then he picks up the letter. He’s sure now it’s just something Stan forgot to send out, or lost accidentally when he was home. Maybe he didn’t need to send it because he _was _home and could just _tell _Mike whatever and play him Jeff Buckley’s album. He can probably give it back, and just play off the opening it as being on-brand for him. They’ve let him get away with worse. Probably.

He lights a cigarette, and leans back against the post, holding the letter in his other hand.

_15/01/1995_

_Dear Mike,_

_How’s college going? How’s the history treating you?_

Richie scoffs. “I’m fuckin’ psychic. Boring nerd psychic.”

_I hope you’re making some new friends, although not ones as cool as us, obviously. _

Richie grins. “You got that right, my man.”

_This is where I admit I’m just stalling, because I’m afraid of what I might say next. _

Richie’s smile drops a little, but he’s mostly bemused. “So am I, Staniel.”

_I’m sorry I didn’t come back for winter break. I could pretend that it was completely on my parents wanting to look around Princeton, and my dad being excited to introduce me to friends of his in New York, and my mom being keen to celebrate Hanukkah there – but I know we don’t lie to each other. I was kind of glad when they said it, which probably makes me sound like an asshole. _

Richie thinks back. Winter break, freshman year? He’d been home, he thinks. It’d been a good break – a few of them had come back, except Bev, who he knew didn’t want to. Eddie had been there, for a few days at least, and it’d felt almost normal again. He remembers Stan not coming back, and being vaguely annoyed – but he wouldn’t have called it _assholish behaviour_. As an expert on the subject.

_It wasn’t because I didn’t want to see you and everyone else. I miss you all like crazy, it’s so weird being here without everyone. I mean, no one is stealing my glasses – _Richie grins – _or stopping me reading, or making me go places I don’t want to go. But turns out, it’s very quiet without that. _

“Prematurely _old,_” he says, shaking his head.

_It was because I was afraid if I saw you again so soon after (well, it felt both too soon and an excruciatingly long time since I’d seen you) I wouldn’t be strong enough to keep doing what we agreed. _

Richie’s grin slips. Something is tugging at his gut, telling him to stop reading, but he’s come this far, hasn’t he?

_I miss you so much it actually hurts. Mom said I was too skinny and that I wasn’t eating enough when she saw me. I do eat regularly, so don’t worry about that, but I’m almost never hungry. Or not like that. I feel like my hunger is deeper, it’s in my bones and the bottom of my heart. I feel like there’s a hole in my chest, clean through, and no one can see it but me. That’s where the hunger comes from, and it can’t be satisfied until I see you again. But if I see you again – I’m not kidding, I will have to drop everything and kiss you, and I won’t stop and then we’ll be in trouble, because everyone will be shocked and we’ll be chased out of town by a pitchfork-wielding angry mob. Or something. So that’s why I couldn’t come home just yet. _

_I don’t know if it’s better here, but I met another student the other day who just referred to his boyfriend totally casually. Like he wasn’t nervous at all. Maybe he was and he did it anyway. I think about how brave he must be to do that, with people you don’t know well. I wish I had some of that. I feel like I’ve gotten less and less brave since I was thirteen. _

Richie takes a ragged breath, and stares at it until his shaking hand accidentally drops his cigarette on the porch, burning himself slightly. He swears, wringing his fingers, and picks it up. It’s _fine_, he decides, and takes several long drags on it, staring out at the big tree across the road. He remembers that being here twenty years ago, and it’s strange. Like time hasn’t moved in this street. But it has. It fucking has.

He goes back to the letter. Is it possible you can know people, feel connected with them so strongly, and then realise there was a whole part of them they were hiding. A whole secret self, and you didn’t even know?

_I know what we said at the start of summer. Logically, us trying to do long-distance is unfair, and would end up with us both miserable. But you know what, Mike? I’m miserable anyway. I meet people and they’re nice, or attractive, or funny or whatever but they’re not you. They don’t smile the way you do. They don’t have your eyes, or your smell. Which probably sounds like an insult, but you know it’s not. I walked past someone who must use the same washing powder as Miriam, because I was almost winded thinking of you. I still think about lying next to you, the warmth of your skin, your steady heartbeat. I don’t want to touch anyone who isn’t you. I don’t want anyone who isn’t you touching me. Or simply, I don’t want anyone who isn’t you. _

_I’ve written all this and I realise I’m not sure if you’re seeing anyone. It’d be alright if you were, that was the deal. But – and I know this sounds crazy, given how much more college there is – I would be happy to try if you wanted to. Maybe I’m just being ridiculous, because being with you while you’re not here kind of defeats the purpose but – we could try. At least I wouldn’t be pretending that everything’s great here and that I only miss you as much I should miss a friend. And we could tell the others this time, I don’t care. I just want to be with you. Although how, I’m not sure – email blast? Celebratory Holiday and Coming Out Party? Guess we’ll cross that bridge later. _

_I was reading something the other day that made me think of you – well, a lot of things do, but this in particular – you remember Herman Melville? How we had to read Moby Dick, and Richie was Richie about it – _Richie splutters a half-cough, half-laugh at this.

_Apparently he was friends with Nathaniel Hawthorne, who wrote The Scarlet Letter. Or something more than that, I’m pretty sure, because he definitely wrote some pretty intense love letters. This one part was what made me think of you (secretly I’m a sap. But you knew that.)_

_“Your heart beat in my ribs and mine in yours, and both in God’s”. What a line. I could do a million drafts of this letter and never come up with anything as beautiful as that. And I feel like that sometimes. I always thought people were being melodramatic when they talked about “giving your heart away” but sometimes it really does feel like you kept mine when I left, and I can feel it beating five hundred miles from here. There’s this old folk song my mom likes about being five hundred miles from your home, I always hated it because I thought it was cheesy and lame, but I keep thinking about it now. Funny, that._

_I should probably wrap this letter up soon. And then send it to you. I’m terrified, but I’m excited, too. Before I go, I’ll explain why I posted you a random cassette. You remember that conversation we had, about sex and God, and an intense love being close to religion? It’s alright if you don’t, I’m remembering now that we were pretty high. I mentioned Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah, and you didn’t know it, and I said I’d track it down for you. I didn’t exactly do that – but I have a reason. I was listening to the radio a while ago, and I froze up, hearing this cover. Kind of made me cry, actually. How lame am I? _

_I kept the radio on for the rest of the day but they didn’t play it again, and so I found a record store and asked if they knew it, and they found me this album, which is alright but it’s really about one song. I wanted to just send you the single, but apparently it isn’t a single, so I got the whole thing but – side B, track one. It’s really good._

_Maybe later I’ll find the original, and send that to you too. _

_I realise, if you are in a relationship already that I don’t know about this is going to make things real fucking awkward next time I see you but – you gotta try right? _

_I love you so much I can barely sleep, _

_Stan._

Richie butts his cigarette out, and folds the letter up, and puts it back into the envelope with the cassette. It’s obviously been broken open. He has no idea what to do about that. Suddenly his earlier idea that he’s just going to say _hey I read this boring letter you sent Mike in college, what a blast from the past_, seems stupidly naïve.

He takes another cigarette out and lights it. He can’t give it back now. _Sorry Mike, I accidentally opened and read this decades-old love letter Stan never sent you. My bad. _

He smokes, processing.

This was _Stan_, too. He’d never in his life heard Stan talk like that. He’d seen him drunk and high on occasion, and he was looser and more affectionate but not like _that. _Not openly discussing his feelings and talking about his deep fears and wants. He wrote like some kind of fucking… romantic poet, not like a button-down wearing bird-watcher who Richie had truly thought – and feared – would become an accountant.

And there had been some _thing _between him and Mike, the last summer. Which he’d missed, somehow. Granted, he’d been kind of distracted and full of restless energy that whole time. A mixture of dying to get out of Maine - a long-held desire- away from all the small town people and everyone that knew him and didn’t like him; and the realisation that it would never quite be the same again, with all of them, the sound of his childhood drawing to a close and with it, all those summer afternoons hanging out and reading comics with his best friend.

But it seems like they’d had something pretty serious going on. Richie had only met Patty a few times, before she’d married Stan. He’d felt weird about going to the wedding anyway, because he hadn’t seen Stan in ages and he was busy trying to build his career and it was too easy to send a present and stay away, because, touring. Nothing else. But the two of them together - it was the closest he’d seen Stan to the Stan of the letter.

The letter had said _we can tell the others this time _so he’s pretty sure he’s the only one besides Stan and Mike who knows about this, which somehow makes it worse. He really should have just given it back to Stan.

_Oh, you shouldn’t have read the ancient, unposted letter that wasn’t in any way meant for you? What a revelation! _A nasty voice in his head retorts.

_I was just curious! _He thinks. _I just assumed -_

_Well, you know what they about curiosity. And assuming. I guess you’re already an ass, though. _The voice says.

_Oh, fuck off, _he thinks, defiantly.

He feels distantly – annoyed somehow. He knows that logically that’s kind of a weird reaction. It’s not jealousy. He _knows _annoyed-jealousy. Or at least it’s not romantic jealousy.

He’d just always thought he was Stan’s best friend, as much as it mattered within their group, where different combinations of all of them shared different interests. At least back then. He thought – as much shit as they gave each other – that they also talked about stuff. In their own way.

He takes a drag on his cigarette, blows it out.

The front door opens, and he scrambles to grab the letter and stuff it back inside his jacket.

“What’re you doing, Rich?” Bill says.

“Smoking. What does it look like?” Richie retorts.

Bill smiles. “You s-slept well too, then?”

Richie grumbles around his cigarette.

“Move up,” Bill says, gesturing for Richie to move his legs off the top step. He does, grumbling.

Bill looks at him. “C-can I steal a smoke?”

Richie glares at him. “You’re a terrible friend,” he says, and Bill laughs.

He gives him one and lights it for him.

Bill takes a drag, takes it in and angles his face away, so as not to blow it directly in Richie’s face. “So, Rich. W-What’s news?”

Richie coughs a laugh, blowing smoke out. “Nothing since I saw you last night, Bill.”

***

Eddie wakes up early, as usual, and then realises the same thing he did yesterday: he’s technically on holiday. Or something like it, anyway. He wonders whether he should go for a run – Ben probably already has, because apparently he’s The Terminator now.

He’d actually brought shoes and jogging clothes, but they’re in his bag back at the guesthouse. And he’s unusually comfortable here – at home he gets up at least an hour before Myra.

He looks across at the other twin bed, and distantly remembers Bev getting up in the middle of the night.

She’s still asleep now.

He decides to not risk waking her and snuggles back into sleep.

When he wakes up again later, she’s dressed and looking at her phone grimly.

“Everything alright?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.

She looks up, and her expression lightens instantly. She quickly puts her phone face-down next to her. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

He notices that her eyes are red, like she hasn’t slept much, and a little puffy, like she’s been crying.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks, casually.

She smiles, but it doesn’t totally connect. “Fine. I don’t sleep in much, anyway, so. How did you go?”

“I don’t sleep in much, either,” he admits. “So, pretty good.” He pauses. “I heard you leave in the night.”

Her smile slips for a moment, then she returns it. “Just had a bad dream. Nothing I can’t handle.”

He knows there’s more to it, but doesn’t know how else to ask. If she wants to talk about it, she will. “Alright. If you’re good, you’re good.”

She nods. “Do you want to see whether anyone else is up yet?”

“Sure,” he says, getting out of bed.

He looks at her. “I know you can handle it Bev, you’ve always been the most fearless. But you know, you can talk to me if you have those…dreams. If you want. Wake me up, I don’t care.”

She smiles at him, and this time it does connect to her eyes. “Thanks, Eddie.”

***

Breakfast is a slow event. Everyone wakes at a different time and they end up in the living room, with a plate or a bowl of something they work through slowly.

Everyone looks a bit rumpled, wearing the same clothes as yesterday, but other than that well-slept. Mostly. Ben notices Stan looks more tired than he has even in the last few days, and he’s yawning. Bev is looking similarly red-eyed.

Ben smiles at her and she smiles back, genuinely, and he wonders if she was up late fighting with her husband. He wishes he could help her, but what is he going to do that’s not insane and possessive? She’s had enough of that in her life, as he’s very aware.

“So, wh-what’s on the agenda today?” Bill asks.

Everyone looks around, sluggish.

Bev speaks first. “Well, I don’t know about you guys but I gotta get back to the guesthouse and change.”

Everyone else – bar Stan – agrees to a similar plan.

Ben looks at Bev. “I think you came in my car yesterday, if you’re happy for me to drive you back?”

She smiles at him, bemused. “Why wouldn’t I be? Love to.”

“OK,” he says, smiling. “Good.”

Mike looks at Stan, who is yawning again. “Do you want to get that painting job done today?

Stan nods. “We’ll need to go to the main street though.”

“Well, I need to go back to my apartment to change, too, but what’s say I meet you there in an hour?” Mike suggests.

“Sounds good to me. Excited to look at paint swatches?” Stan says, wryly.

Mike grins. “Ecstatic.”

Ben notices Richie watching them oddly. Almost…irritated. Not obviously, but Ben knows the look. It’s been a while, but he still recognises the onset of a Richie mood. A Richie mood can be dangerous. One minute, you’re planning to go to Prom with your friends, and the next minute you’re drunk and sad and throwing up outside the gym, because a Richie mood convinced you drinking would make you less sad.

Mike nods, and looks at everyone. “We’ve got to do more boring house stuff today, so feel free to be here, but we will rope you into helping.”

There are alternating groans and laughs.

***

Eddie doesn’t know how he’s ended up with Richie, sitting in the passenger seat and playing with the rental car’s buttons and things, but here he is.

He’d said, ‘I’m going to pick up something from the chemist,” and Richie had said, “I haven’t been back. I wonder if Gretta still works there. Oh I hope she does, miserable cow,” and smirked, and somehow this had turned into him giving Richie a lift there.

Richie had been kind of insistent.

“Hey asshole, can you knock it off? You know this is a rental?” Eddie snaps.

Richie grins. “Really, Eds? You’ve never mentioned it.”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie sighs, eyes on the road. Richie cackles. He’s got a strange kind of energy. Eddie remembers it from when they were kids.

“So, what do you want to do today?” Richie asks.

“I want to get to the pharmacy, pick up my prescription, and get out without you knocking over a whole display or getting into a fight with Gretta Keene. Is that likely?” he replies, grumpily.

Richie snorts. “When have I ever started a fight?”

Eddie side-eyes him. “I think your mouth’s been pretty helpful in that regard.”

Richie nods, smirking, unable to fault the logic. “Ok but I never actually get into fights. You know I can’t fight.”

“You’d think that would make you stop talking shit, and yet...” Eddie snarks.

“I am as God made me, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie replies loftily.

“That one’s worse,” Eddie groans.

Richie laughs again. “You know I do it out of love, Eddie-Eddie-bo-beddie,”

This startles a half-laugh out of Eddie, and he fails to keep a frown on. “What even _is _that, Rich?”

“The name game?” Richie says, like this is obvious.

“You’re saying that like it means something,” Eddie retorts.

“Shirley Ellis? _American Horror Story?_” Richie asks, annoyingly.

“I think we both know I don’t know what _American Horror Story _is,” he snaps. “It sounds dumb.”

Richie laughs. “Oh, it is. Deeply. Occasional moments of brilliance. Each season is a different place and time period,” he says, and looks out the window. He snorts. “Maybe they should set the next season here. _AHS: Early 90s Derry_. Or pretty much any time here.”

“I think our experience was definitely enough of an American horror story to count,” Eddie says darkly.

“Perfect. I’ll get Ryan Murphy on the phone,” Richie jokes.

Eddie decides not to bother asking.

“So, what are we doing, after the pharmacy? You wanna get something to eat?” Richie asks, restless as a teenager.

“Are you ever not thinking about food? We just had breakfast,” Eddie says, incredulously.

“I think we both know the answer to that,” Richie says, unapologetically. “What about _second breakfast_?” he says, attempting a bad accent, maybe somewhere in the UK, but it’s hard to be sure.

“Is that meant to be one of the hobbits?” Eddie says, disparagingly.

“You got a reference! Just when I was going to write you off as a total cultural philistine,” Richie smirks.

“Fuck you, you _know _I’ve read Lord Of The Rings more than once. And The Silmarillion. I had to watch the movies,” Eddie spitfires back.

“They’re good movies,” Richie agrees, still smirking. “Do you wanna get food, then?”

“Ok, fine,” Eddie agrees, irritably, fighting the strangest impulse to grin.

“Awesome,” Richie says, and looks out the window, grinning.

**

The painting job will be boring. Stan knows it. A lot less boring with Mike’s help, which he didn’t have to offer. He’s having a better time than anyone should be, comparing blue paint swatches at a small town hardware store on a Sunday morning.

“Do you think the colour is more Winner’s Circle, Sea Drifter, or Integrity?” Mike asks, grinning.

“You made one of those up, admit it!” Stan says, trying to suppress his incredulous laughter and failing.

Mike throws his hands up innocently, still holding the swatch cards. “I swear to God, all real paint names!” he says, laughing too, handing one of the cards to Stan.

“Maybe it’s more Zeftron or Porpoise Place or…Ocean Smurf?” he says, disbelievingly, and Mike bursts into silent laughter.

“Oh sorry, surf,” Stan corrects himself, peering at it, and they both crack up.

“Mrs Johansson will kick us out if we keep laughing,” Mike wheezes out. “We’re adult men. We can choose a paint colour and leave. We can do this.”

Stan straightens up, and nods. He can’t look at Mike, because he’ll start laughing again. “I think Sea Drifter is closest,” he says, in his most nonchalant tone. Unfortunately, he makes eye contact with Mike and they burst into suppressed laughter again.

Mike takes a breath and straightens up. “I think we should get – _that_ colour. If they have it. Sounds good to me,” he says, steadily, not saying the colour name.

Stan nods, and they find the colour they need and pull the heavy paint tin out. “Do you think one will be enough?”

Mike looks at it. “I mean, we’re only painting that little bit round the back. I think a gallon should be more than enough.”

“Alright, good,” Stan says, and pauses. “Thanks for doing this with me. I hate painting, and having to do all this by myself…nightmare,” he says, with a shudder. “You didn’t have to.”

Mike smiles again. “I wanted to.”

Stan smiles back. No one says anything for a moment.

“Because I actually like DIY projects, so,” Mike adds.

“Well, it’s a good thing one of us does,” Stan agrees.

The problem with Mike is that he’s so good-natured and kind it’s impossible to know whether anything he does is more than that.

They buy their paint from Mrs Johansson – Mr Johansson is apparently too sick to work the front counter these days, which is depressing because in Stan’s mind he’s only in his early forties but that was a long time ago – and she does give them an unimpressed look, but doesn’t scold them, just talks to them in her slow, old voice.

“It was awful, what happened to them,” Mrs Johansson says of Stan’s parents and he agrees, thanks her for her concern, but he doesn’t want to talk about them in the hardware store. He doesn’t want to talk about them with anyone except maybe seven other people in the world, six of whom were at his house last night.

“So, what are you doing back here? I seem to remember you moved away?” she asks. “Your dad told me you were…what was it…a therapist? Fancy job, must be. But you’re back here now? Why?”

He starts to answer, but doesn’t know what to say. He knows what he should say, but somehow he can’t. 

Mike looks at him, worry flickering in his eyes. He looks back at Mrs Johansson. “Stan’s just here to look over his parents’ things, get the house ready to sell if he needs to,” he jumps in smoothly.

“Yeah, yeah, I am,” Stan says to her, eternally grateful that Mike is here, and he’s helpful and calm.

As they’re leaving, a woman with very curly black hair and pale skin almost bumps into them coming into the shop.

She looks surprised, and a bit uncomfortable. “Mike, hi,” she says. “Doing some Sunday DIY?”

He gestures, one handed, at the paint tin he’s carrying. “Some painting, actually.”

“Your apartment?” she asks. “The walls aren’t –“

“Uh, Stan’s house, actually,” Mike replies, cutting her off lightly. “It’s blue.”

There’s an odd vibe between them – polite but definitely awkward, a little off.

Her eyes flick to Stan curiously and back. There’s a beat.

“Uh, this is my friend Stan,” Mike says quickly, to her. “Stan, Gia,” Mike introduces her hurriedly to him. “Gia teaches English at the high school, with me.”

“I try to, anyway,” she says dryly, with an appraising look at him.

He feels awkward too. “From what Mike’s told me, it doesn’t sound easy,” he says, half-smiling. “I don’t think I’ve ever met any of Mike’s work colleagues,” he says, mainly to say something small-talky.

She smiles wryly. “I don’t think I’ve ever met any of his friends. Go figure. Are you from interstate?”

“I was,” he replies. “But I grew up here.”

This interests her. “Aw, you guys are childhood friends? And you’re still friends today, that’s too sweet.”

“Yeah,” Mike says, hurriedly. “We should probably get going –“

She looks at Mike, curiously. “Oh, yeah, of course, me too. I did want to ask – is it right you’re probably not in Monday?”

“Yeah, I’ve arranged a sub, so it’s all worked out,” Mike says, quickly.

She looks at him, in a vaguely suspicious, mostly concerned way. “Everything alright?”

“Nothing to worry about,” he says, politely.

She looks at him for a moment, and then smiles politely. “That’s good to know – I’ll, uh, let you go now. See you Tuesday, then, Mike,” she says, like she’s now trying to get away. “Nice to meet you,” she smiles at Stan. He returns the sentiment and they stand aside to let her go past.

Stan stops and looks at Mike after they leave the store. “Ok, _what _was up with that?”

Mike looks at him, aiming for casual. “What do you mean?”

Stan gives him a deeply unconvinced look. “Mike. You were weird. That was weird.”

“What was weird?” Mike protests, and then gives up, breaking into a sheepish smile. “Alright yes, maybe a bit, but I’ll tell you later, ok?”

Stan smirks. “Well, _now, _I’m interested. What did you do?”

Mike looks a little guilty, surprisingly, but smiles and Stan realises he’s embarrassed. “It wasn’t a big – I will tell you, but – oh no,” he says, last two words in an undertone.

“What?” Stan asks, confused.

“Don’t look now, but I think two of my eleventh-graders are coming over,” Mike says in the quiet tone of someone who has just spotted a bear and is trying to keep it calm.

Stan smiles. “You’re popular this morning.”

“Unfortunately,” Mike says, grumpily.

“Mr Hanlon?” comes a girl’s voice in front of them.

They turn to face her. There are two teenage girls in front of them. One of them – well-dressed, self-assured, long dark-brown hair out over her shoulders – smiles at Mike confidently; her friend – shorter, blonde hair in a ponytail, less trendy-looking – smiles too, but looks uncomfortable.

“Sierra, Grace, hi guys,” Mike says warmly. Stan can hear the change to teacher-voice. “Enjoying your weekend so far?”

Grace, the blond – he’s assuming, going off which one Mike looked at – nods but doesn’t speak. Sierra says, “Definitely. Grace and I are thinking of going shopping,” and pauses. “Or maybe we’ll just go to the skate park and watch the boys,” she says, with an impish smile.

She’s definitely looking at Mike in a way Stan certainly never looked at a teacher. Well, maybe that one student teacher in tenth grade. She had an Irish accent too, he was only human. Also, he makes a mental note to ask Mike about the _skate park _because in their day the ‘skate park’ had been a dangerous old ex-construction site and kids had regularly gotten injured there.

He can sense Mike growing more uncomfortable, though he keeps smiling politely. “Hope you have a fun day, then,” he says, and Stan is unsure of how else you’d reply.

Sierra keeps her eyes on Mike, giggling a little. “Thanks, we will. Do you have any fun plans today, Mr Hanlon?”

Grace looks uncomfortable, like her idea of fun Saturday plans didn’t involve making small talk with her history teacher and she’d love to be anywhere else. Stan gets it.

Mike looks down at the paint tin he’s still carrying. “Uh, just boring adult stuff. House painting.”

“Sounds fun,” Sierra says, giggling, but not even in a mocking teenager kind of way. She hasn’t looked at Stan most of the time she’s been talking to Mike, but her gaze moves over to him, like he’s being appraised for the second time today and he doesn’t like it. “With your friend? Will you introduce me?”

Grace looks mortified, though she giggles too, albeit in a much more nervous way. Stan wishes he could convey how much they’re in the same boat.

Mike’s eyes convey a slight _sorry _when he looks at him and back. “This is my friend Stan. He’s in town for a couple of weeks.”

Stan half-smiles-and-waves awkwardly, with one hand.

“Nice to meet you,” Sierra says, smiling, and turns her attention back to Mike. “Grace and I were also thinking of going to see her brother’s band tonight. They’re playing out in Hampden,” she says excitedly, and then pauses a second. “You should totally come, they’re really good,” she says, with a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Sie!” Grace squeaks, giggling in a kind of horrified way.

Mike valiantly keeps a smile on his face, but definitely sounds more uncomfortable when he speaks. “I’m sure it will be a great show, but we have plans tonight. I’ll see you in school, next week,” he says politely, but with unmistakable emphasis on _school. _

Sierra looks a little put out, but smiles anyway. “Can’t wait,” she says, brightly. “Have a good weekend with your friend,” she adds, and her eyes flick back to Stan. He would even swear there’s a jealous look in her eyes, even though she’s smiling.

“You too, guys,” Mike says, palpably grateful. Sierra smiles at him widely, and Grace just nods mutely, seemingly just as grateful as Mike to be leaving.

The girls leave and Stan hears Sierra’s giggling down the street. Mike sighs the minute they’re far enough away. Stan’s mouth falls open, and he feels like he might laugh as well.

“Did that child just…ask you out?” he manages, failing not to shake with silent laughter.

Mike groans. “I _know_.” He shakes his head, grinning, embarrassed. “She’s actually a good kid, really, and smart. But she’s developed this – _crush_, and I’m trying to politely dissuade it, but she’s not getting the hint, and it’s getting beyond a joke…”

Stan raises his eyebrows. “Does she ask you out _often?_”

Mike shakes his head, chuckling self-consciously. “No, but she’s getting very – over-familiar. Which, I want to have a friendly relationship with my students, but I can’t be their _friend, _it’s very awkward to try to have to enforce that boundary. And so like, I seem to be running into her a lot outside of school. Which could be a coincidence, but –“

Stan sucks in a breath, morbidly fascinated. “You think it’s not?”

Mike looks at him, and chuckles awkwardly again. “Ah, yeah, well…a few weeks ago, on Halloween, she somehow found my apartment to trick-or-treat at. And I only ever really get kids from my building, because kids don’t really want to trick or treat whole apartment buildings, but there she was in some outfit that was clearly meant to be –“ he sucks in a breath at the awkward memory. “She _swore _up and down that she had just happened to be trick or treating around the building because she was going to a friend’s party nearby, but what kid decides to randomly go trick-or-treating by themselves? I still have no idea how she knew where I lived, but it made me realise the problem might be worse than I thought.”

“Oh my god, Mike,” Stan says, laughing in a vaguely horrified way. “Did you call her parents? Have you talked to them about it?”

Mike sighs, rubbing his eyes. “I told her it wasn’t appropriate for her to be there, even by accident – which I doubt it was – and I said I could call her mom to come pick her up if she couldn’t, and she panicked and said she had to get to this party. And then, she sort of settled down for a week or so, but she’s been getting bolder and bolder again. If it gets any worse, I really might have to talk to her parents.”

“You haven’t yet, though?” Stan asks.

Mike looks sympathetic. “I feel bad for her. I know she’s having some issues at home, and her parents are divorcing, and I suppose I don’t want to get her in trouble. She really is a good kid, in the end.”

Stan smiles at him, marvelling again at how little Mike’s changed in the time he’s known him. Always looking out for people, always down to help out, to empathise. The kindest person he knows. Maybe that he’s ever known.

“You know you’re too kind for your own good, Mike?” Stan scolds, smiling.

Mike chuckles. “I know. Always been my problem.”

Stan chuckles in response. “Always been your best quality, too.”

Mike looks at him funny, then smiles easily. “Thanks, Stan.”

Stan can’t tell anymore, how many moments recently it seems like they’re just looking at each other, smiling like idiots. How long they really go for versus how long they feel. Whether that should mean anything to him, and whether he wants it to.

***

Richie is surprised to find he’s having a good morning.

He’s been in kind of a weird mood since reading the letter, and the ten percent of his brain that is rational and reasonable has been trying to convince him that it shouldn’t matter. It’s their business, right? Clearly a long over relationship. It’s his own fault for prying into it, and he’s only got himself to blame if he now feels the pressure of knowing a big, long-buried secret.

But the larger part of him that isn’t stressing about that is actually enjoying himself, bumming around the pharmacy while Eddie picks up whatever it is that he needs. The thought had crossed his mind that it might not be real, like before. He wants to believe that’s not true, but he of all people knows how your childhood fears and scars hook into you with long-reaching arms.

He sees a woman stacking shelves. She’s older, definitely; but she’s got the same expression on her face, like she’s just smelled dogshit on someone’s shoe.

“Gretta?” he asks, smirking.

She turns, and does a semi-double-take. “Tozier?” she says, narrowing her eyes to squint-glare at him.

“The very same,” he replies, still smirking.

Her face settles into a familiar unimpressed expression. “Thought I’d see you around soon,” she says, looking him over. “You look _great_,” she says, mockingly.

He laughs. It’s a bit rich, coming from someone whose hair is still stuck in the late eighties and looks older than their forty years. “Aw, so do you, Gretta. I’m assuming you don’t own any mirrors? Or do they still crack when you go past?”

Her eyes flash with anger, and her lips twist into a sneer. “I read that you ran out of your last show after forgetting your lines. I know your shit’s forgettable, but it can’t be that hard to memorise, surely? It also said that you’re a raging cokehead though, so I guess at least you can blame that. Forchoking at your show and your whole…face, I hear coke really fucks you up long-term. Unless that’s just your face?” she says, gasping with mock-concern.

He smirks. “Empathetic as ever, Gretta. I guess you know about the ravages of coke use from personal experience? Actually, going by _your_ face, I’d say…oxy? Hillbilly meth?”

She looks even uglier with her angry expression, and then her mouth twists into an ugly smirk. “So, is your boyfriend here?”

He keeps his smirk in place, but internally he knows she’s hit her target. “What, Gretta?” he says, like he’s bored but amused by her. “You really shouldn’t be huffing glue before work, you know. Think of your poor dad.”

She turns to look over at the prescription counter, where Eddie is in conversation with Mr Keene, and smirks wider, like she knows she’s struck gold.

“I _thought _he couldn’t be far away. You were _so close _back in school,” she says, and internally, he is starting to panic, but externally he’s using all his energy to seem unbothered. “Always running after him, always slinging your arm around him. What would your _fans,_” she says, like anyone who would be a fan of him is less than human, “think if they knew what I knew,” she purrs.

“You don’t know anything, Gretta, if we’re going by the fact you’re a washed-up middle-aged woman working in your Dad’s pharmacy,” he retorts, determined to keep his smirk in place at all costs.

Her eyes flash again and she goes in. “And, hilariously, you’re a comedian whose whole life is a _pathetic_ joke. But I guess it matches your pathetic attempts at comedy. And the absolute _funniest _part, Tozier?” she says, venomously, smiling like it’s Christmas morning. “With all your attempts to reinvent yourself and get away from here, you’re _still _the same tragic little f-“

“Oh, go blow your dad, Gretta. Or does he only like under-eighteens?” he interrupts savagely, knocks a row of pads off the shelf, and storms out.

He’s in such a rage he doesn’t even look where he’s going and smacks straight into someone.

“Ow, fucking Christ, could you watch – _Richie_?” they say, switching rapidly from annoyed to surprised.

He steps back, to see a short brunette woman in a leather jacket looking at him in delighted confusion. He is tall, but she’s always been short – and though she’s cut her hair into a trendy pixie cut, just under her ears, he recognises her almost immediately.

“_Heather?_” he asks, just as surprised.

“Give me a hug, then, Rich!” she says, like this is obvious. He grins and bends down a bit to hug her.

“God, you’re _infuriatingly _tall,” she says, grinning back, when they separate. “I mean, you were always taller than me, but this is a whole new level.”

“To be fair, hard not be,” he teases.

“Fuck _off, _Richie,” she laughs. He feels an unexpected wave of affection for her, the back and forth making him feel seventeen again for a moment.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, beaming, and then looks at him closer. “Everything ok? You looked murderous for a moment back there.”

He doesn’t know what to say, but her eyes flick towards the pharmacy next to him. “Bet I can guess why, though. Gretta’s working today?” she says, in a darkly humorous tone.

He returns her look, and smirks. “That, or a corpse that’s been in the water for three days has taken her place and no-one’s noticed.”

Heather laugh-gasps. “Wow, she must have been on fine form today, then.”

He nods, smiling wider. “No, I’m pretty sure the demon possessing her has not been exorcised in the last two decades.”

Heather laughs, shaking her head. “Well, forewarned is forearmed, so thanks. I gotta get something from the pharmacy. I swear to god, every time she sees me she finds a way to jab at me. Which I guess, I’m not surprised by, but it’s just kind of sad.”

Richie frowns a little. “Don’t listen to her, she’s full of shit. She always has been.”

Heather smiles at him. “Yeah I suppose, and you’re sweet, but I meant sad for her. She’s so…_bitter_. Makes me wonder if I’d stayed here whether I’d have ended up like that.”

Richie makes a noise of disagreement. “_Pfft. _She’s not that way cause she stayed, she’s that way because she’s Gretta and she’s no longer a teenager. Mike stayed, and he’s just as kind as he was, because he’s got an actual heart and not a fucking, twisted little lump of coal in his chest.”

Heather nods, and smiles in recognition. “Oh, he’s still here? I liked him – he _was _really kind, in school. Even though we didn’t know each other well. Always lent me pens in history.”

Richie grins. “That’s Mike. What a nerd,” he says affectionately, and Heather laughs in surprise. “You know he’s _such _a fucking nerd for history he now teaches it? Maybe even in that same classroom?”

“No way, that’s great!” Heather says, beaming. “Maybe I’ll see him around sometime. Is that why you’re here? Visiting him? Or your parents?”

“Went and Maggie moved out to Denver a while back, so not for them. I guess I’m kind of here to see Mike – he organised a few of us to come down and help Stan –“ Richie wonders how to phrase it, momentarily. “His parents passed, and we’re helping him sort the house out. It’s kind of a big job.”

Heather makes a sympathetic noise and frowns. “Aw, that’s awful, I’m so sorry. Give him my sympathies. I liked him too, in school. He wasn’t cruel.”

Richie recognises for a moment, in her eyes, the memory of how important that was. Especially at their school – remembering someone who deliberately wasn’t nasty to you is still a big deal for him, and must still be for her.

“So, by a few of us, do you mean your old club?” she asks, curiously.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, and then wonders why he’s on his guard. It’s not like she’s Gretta. He smiles more, relaxing. “We all came down, actually.”

Heather smiles, happily. “That’s so nice of you all, wow. You were all always like that, I guess,” she says, warmly. “Just, supportive of each other. Nice to see you’re still close after so long. I think the only person I’m still in contact with from school is Tina, and we really only keep up in emails these days.”

“Yeah,” Richie smiles, privately feeling guilty – both about not staying in contact, and about how he’s not being exactly honest about how long they’ve all been out of contact with each other. But it’s not like she needs to know that, so fuck it. 

“We actually haven’t all been together in a while, we’re just so busy these days,” he hedges. “Sorry I stopped – “ he begins, and she waves him off, grinning.

“Don’t apologise or I’ll be shocked and think you’ve been replaced with a pod-person,” she teases. He grins back. “We’ve both been busy. Clearly you have, Mr Hollywood,” she says, half-teasing, half-admiring.

He groans. “Oh my god, don’t call me that. It’s…well, it’s not like I’m winning any Oscars anytime soon.”

She laughs, but looks genuinely excited. “I’ve never known you to be modest, Rich, it’s really cool that you’re living the dream! I swear to god, I almost had a heart attack when I saw you pop up for two seconds in this movie I was watching a few years ago. I said to my friend afterwards, _that was my high-school boyfriend for a hot minute,_” she says, laughing. “I think you were just playing the cab driver in this dumb comedy, but you were so funny.”

“The five seconds I was in it, obviously,” he says, laughing too, sort of embarrassed at the memory and sort of not.

At the time, maybe thirteen years ago when he was still living in a shoebox and eating leftovers and bartending (among other jobs), he had been very excited to get the role, even though it was so small. He’d been _sure _that after slogging it out doing comedy in L.A and auditioning for crappy roles for such a long time (when post-college he had been sure it would be only a year or two before he was FAMOUS, because he’d been an idealistic and self-centred idiot, and he now he couldn’t afford to be idealistic) that this one or two scene role would be _the thing _that would catapult him into top-tier stardom. It hadn’t been. So maybe he’d still been an idealistic idiot even then.

“God, I can’t believe you’ve seen that, it’s such a nothing role,” he says, grinning embarrassedly. “It’s not like I even get to act that much. My parents were thrilled that I chose to be a theatre major,” he says, sarcastically.

Heather laughs. “Hey, you’re pretty well known now though, right? Which is very cool. I’m sure I’ve seen your face on one of those Netflix comedy specials as I’ve been scrolling.” 

“And you’ve scrolled past?” he snarks.

She cringes cutely, and he remembers suddenly that she used to do that. He’s filled with affection again. Not attraction – but affection - for the kids they were. She smiles sheepishly at him. “I think – well, we were _going to, _but we’re very busy a lot of the time, and we live in a time of Peak TV –“

He laughs, mock-indignant. “Wait, who’s we?” he says and looks at her, now smiling coyly and looking a little surprised, like he should know. “And I just realised, I’ve been totally rude I think –“ he realises, and she laughs.

“So, par for the course in the Richie Tozier experience,” she teases, and he laughs.

“Oh, you’re the comedian now, huh?” he asks, and she laughs again. “Fuck, I was _going _to say, you said you moved away? Where are you now? And why have you been sucked back into this shithole?” he says, and she’s about to answer, but someone comes up behind her and interrupts.

“Babe, I got your Dad a card from the newsstand, and I picked up some milk, have you been to the ph…” a woman their age, give or take a few years says, trailing off as she looks at Richie.

She’s Asian, with a dyed-pink bob, dark purple lipstick and kooky, craft-market-looking earrings. She has tattoos on her arms, which he can see because she’s apparently not cold, in November. Then again, Heather tended to run cold, he remembers.

She’s pretty. And she definitely does not fit in in Derry and for that he already likes this stranger. But, by the confused, suspicious look on her face she doesn’t feel the same way.

He glances at Heather, who is still sort of smiling, but almost looks – anxious. _Babe. _

A rainy Sunday afternoon in his car flashes to the forefront of his mind, comforting a crying Heather, telling her it was going to be alright. Telling her she just needed to get out.

“Uh, this is April. My wife,” Heather introduces her, and he recognises a flash of worry in her eyes. He knows that one.

He’s way too slow on the uptake, but he smiles wildly, surprised and with another rush of affection and happiness for her. “Oh my fucking _God, _Heather, that’s fucking amazing! Good on you!”

The anxiety disappears from her expression, and she beams at him, grateful. “Thanks, I still can’t believe it!” she says, and there’s a waver in her voice under her happiness, but he knows not to pull on that thread.

“Give me a hug, then!” he says and he throws his arms around her neck and she hugs his torso tightly.

“I still can’t believe it,” she repeats, pulling away from him, flushed and happy. “We’ve actually been together for about fourteen years, but we made it official as soon as we could, so like, sixteen months ago?”

“Oh right,” he says, “because of the ruling. That’s insanely cool, Heather, _fuck_,” he says, and remembers that his response to it had been happy for all the sappy fucks who deserved to get married already, and personally, to get drunk at a bar, go back to a stranger’s place and sneak out early next morning feeling depressed and empty – as per usual - but somehow worse.

He looks at April, who is still looking at him suspiciously. “Uh, congrats to you too, of course. Great to meet you. I guess we’re semi-Eskimo siblings, huh?” he says, smiling stupidly, unable to ever be a normal adult when meeting other adults.

Heather groans, blushing. “_Richie, _I’m going to _gut you, it’s not even like –“ _

He laughs, attempting innocence. “That’s why I said semi! Like, just kissing –“

“Aren’t you that comedian guy?” she says, in a tone like one would say _aren’t you that escaped murderer _in.

“_Why yes my good woman, indeed I am,_” he says, smiling goofily but internally horrified he’s decided to answer with the fancy British man voice. “_It is the loveliest pleasure to meet you,” _he says, extending a hand. He wants to curl up and die.

Heather is starting to silently crack up, looking embarrassed, but not in a nasty way. He doesn’t blame her. She looks how he feels.

April takes it like a poisonous snake has extended its tail for her to shake. “Thanks,” she says, looking even more suspiciously confused, and now definitely a bit unimpressed. 

“I’m so sorry babe, Richie has a habit of slipping into voices when a situation calls for maturity,” Heather says, laughing. “You should have seen him when he met my parents.”

Richie cringes. “I was _very nervous ok, _yours were the only parents I ever got far enough to meet,”

Heather raises an eyebrow. “Well I think we found out why that day,” she laughs.

Something seems to slot into place for April. “Wait, admittedly very slow on the uptake here, but he’s _your _Richie? High school Richie?” she asks Heather, disbelievingly.

Heather nods, looking at him affectionately. “Yeah, babe, he’s cool. I know he says ridiculous things, and might still have the dress sense of a horny teenager – “

“Hey!” Richie interjects indignantly, but is in reality too entertained by this description to really protest.

Heather grins at him and turns back to her wife. “ – but he was genuinely one of the nicest, coolest, best people I knew here. And he was pretty much the only person I ever came out to here, save my parents. And he knew for ages before I told them. He was even my beard for a while after I told him, just so my friends wouldn’t think anything was wrong with me.” She turns back to him, and there is something softer in her smile, and her eyes. “I don’t know if I ever told you how much it meant, Rich, but it meant a lot.”

He can feel his cheeks heating up. He’s not good at people thanking him when he’s sober. “I mean, I just did the only thing I’m good at. I talked to you. You did the work,” he says, feeling awkward.

April looks at him, and it’s remarkable how much her demeanour changes once she’s decided he’s a worthwhile friend of her wife. “You helped her, though. If you hadn’t inspired her to leave, we would never have met, so I guess I actually owe you a huge thanks?” she says, smiling much more warmly.

“Yeah, honestly Rich. You told me about going to California, and I applied for Berkeley, and I somehow got in and it was just – I dreamed about maybe getting as far away as Portland. I never thought I’d be able to move across the country, and you made me brave enough, dude,” Heather says, smiling at him, eyes glittering.

“Pssh,” he rebuts. “You were already brave as a motherfucker without me, Heath. You just needed a jumpstart.” He shakes his head. “_And _you fucking did it! You got out, and you stayed out! Where are you based now?”

“San Francisco, actually,” Heather says, grinning.

“Get the fuck out!” he replies, excited. “We’ve been living in the same state for this long? Ridiculous. What are you doing there?”

Heather smiles back. “That’s so good! I’m actually at the Chronicle, you know, putting the ol’ journalism degree to some use. As much as I can, in this time period, right?” she says, with dark humour.

“Fuckin’ a, Heather!” he says, with a twisted grin. “We definitely need people like you – fucking, people with a brain, that is – to keep writing about that orange motherfucker and pointing out how _not normal _this shit is.”

“You’re telling me,” April says darkly. “I still haven’t recovered from how black-out drunk we got on election night. It’s still too recent.”

“With you there, sister,” Richie agrees. “I’m not even sure I remember it I got so drunk.”

He shares a look with Heather. “And I thought I’d only have to deal with one sociopathic clown in my life,” he says in a quieter voice. April’s gaze flicks to Heather, but she doesn’t ask. He can tell she definitely will after he’s gone.

Heather chuckles exhaustedly. “Well, I guess we’re both in jobs to talk about it. It’s all we’ve got, right?”

“Right,” he says, feeling deeply guilty. His act is hardly the kind that even touches on politics, and certainly not anything that would annoy the bro-comedy crowd.

He pushes the thought down, and smiles, lighter. “Well, just so you know, I’m in L.A! It’s not an _ideal _distance, but I’m in your city sometimes, and if you’re ever in mine you’re welcome to crash. Hell, _Bill’s _in L.A, we could have a catchup of Californian Derry-escapees, _fuck_.”

“Bill’s there too? Wow!” she says. “I can’t believe you and him are like, actual famous people. April and I totally bonded over his first book, you should give him my thanks!”

Richie grimaces. “I thought I was your favourite famous friend from here, jeez.”

April’s jaw drops, and she looks at her wife. “Sorry, hold up, again, are we talking about _William Denbrough_? _William Denbrough_, one of my favourite horror authors, married to _Audra Riley Denbrough_, one of my favourite actresses? Were you ever going to _mention _you _knew him_?”

“Don’t call him _William Denbrough_ if you meet him_, _he’ll think he’s special,” Richie says, grumpily, but she’s not listening.

Heather looks surprised. “I’ve told you that. We all were at school together since like, the first grade.”

April looks gobsmacked, and throws up her hands. “You _absolutely _did not, Heather! The whole time we were talking about _Caroline, _and you didn’t mention you spent your _whole school life in the same school and grade _as the author?_”_ she says incredulously, starting to laugh.

Heather cringes again, and Richie can see April is visibly charmed by it. Suddenly he feels a pang in his heart, that he has no one to be charmed by his silliness.

“In my defence,” Heather starts, giggling too. “He was Richie’s best friend, and I didn’t know him at all until I started dating Richie. And I didn’t really even know him until then, which was senior year. And –“ she pauses, looking at April with deep affection. “I admit, during that conversation I would probably have forgotten if Elvis had sat next to me all year in Algebra II. There was a very pretty girl in front of me, and it was all I could do to keep a semi-coherent discussion going.”

April melts. “Alright, good save babe.” Richie’s heart hurts more, to see the way they look at each other. This couple, that’s been together so long, and are seemingly enjoying a long-overdue _actual _honeymoon period, because they’ve finally been able to marry. He’s fine. He’s _fine, _OK, there’s a lot of pollen out.

Heather puts her arm around April, beaming.

“Well, I don’t know what you guys are doing here, but maybe we can catch up later? I’m not exactly sure how long I’m here, but I’m thinking another few days definitely,” Richie asks, grinning.

“That would be great!” April says and looks at Heather. “But it’s up to you, babe.”

Heather nods excitedly. “We’re here to see my dad for his 70th, but maybe we’ll have a bit of time before we go home. Either way, we should catch up back home, if you’ve got shows in SF or something.” She glances at April, smiling. “Or we could take a weekend trip to L.A, maybe?”

April smiles back, interested. “I haven’t been to L.A in ages, why not?”

Richie grins. “Well, I should probably give you my email – you don’t want to go through my manager he’s a grumpy man at the best of times –“ he starts, and then gets interrupted.

“Richie, I’m sorry I took so long, but fucking hell that man could talk the back legs off a donkey, Jesus Christ, I had to tell them you were waiting for me so I could go to lunch, and EVEN THEN it was another five minutes before I could leave,” Eddie starts, coming out of the pharmacy and coming to stand next to Richie.

Richie turns to him. “Yeah, and I bet you didn’t give him any fuel at all by discussing all the things you _think _you have, and the articles you’ve read about superbugs, Eds. I don’t believe you’re innocent here,” he says, grinning.

Eddie’s face contorts as usual, and Richie is already weak because of the affection he’s feeling for Heather and her wife, and he’s strangely so happy to be here with all these people, at this moment. “Do _not _call me that – and why do I even _bother _apologising, Richie, you were the one who wanted to come to the pharmacy! I swear to god –“ Eddie starts, and then stops, finally noticing the women in front of him. “Oh my god, I know you…” he says, surprised.

“You remember my high school girlfriend Heather?” Richie reminds him, and Eddie looks suddenly … almost suspicious, like April had.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, polite but stiff. “Good to see you again.” This is Eddie meeting someone he doesn’t know if he can trust 101, and Richie doesn’t get why he’s being weird. 

Richie nods at April. “And her wife_, _April,” he says, looking at Eddie, who suddenly looks a lot happier. Maybe it wasn’t what he thought. Maybe he imagined the hiccup.

Eddie smiles at them both widely. “Heather! You look great. What a jacket!” he says, suddenly in a very friendly mood.

“Thanks, Eddie,” Heather says, surprised but happy. “You look great too. You been working out?” she asks.

“Working out? _Eddie_? You see before you a risk analyst, an agent of the Devil if you will, if the devil wore polos and sensible khakis – “ Richie says, in disbelief.

“Fuck _off, _Richie,” Eddie says, without really much heat, still looking at Heather. “Yeah, I try to go at least once a week. And I jog.”

“Nice,” Heather says. “Good to see neither of us have ended our long-standing tradition of telling Richie to fuck off when he’s being ridiculous,” she says, with a chuckle.

Eddie smiles. “Yeah, he needs it or he’d be unbearable. He almost is now –“ he says, and the women laugh.

“Hey!’ Richie interjects. They ignore him.

Eddie grins. “Wow, it’s so funny we’re seeing you again here, Heather. We were actually just talking about you yesterday.” Heather raises an eyebrow, and Eddie shakes his head quickly. “No, no, good things! I was telling him he dated and dropped a crazy amount of girls in school,” Richie interjects with a _Pfft._ Eddie ignores him. “Then Richie was telling me you were his favourite, because you were a good hang and you shared your weed,” he says, smirking.

Heather laughs, blushing. “Thanks Rich, I’ve got fond memories of us getting high together too.”

Richie grins, unashamed. “Eddie is just trying embarrass me for making fun of him pulling Mr Keene into his hypochondriac mania, as if he hasn’t learned in what, the past thirty-three years? That I am shameless and therefore impossible to shame,” he says, airily. If you pretend it’s true, does that make it true?

“Yeah, and I put up with you, so clearly you’re right and I am crazy,” Eddie retorts long-sufferingly, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. His wedding ring glints in the sunlight, bringing Richie’s mood down a little with an unpleasant _whump._ A constant reminder to _calm down, Richie._

Heather watches him, and some swift recognition passes over her face. “Oh so you guys did it too, wow!” she says, smiling excitedly. She’s looking at them so softly, and he can’t -

Richie’s stomach drops into his shoes as he realises what she must mean.

Eddie hasn’t twigged, probably because he’s only joined the conversation now. “What do you mean?” he says, looking at her, totally lost.

He would give anything to stop her talking right now, but he knows it’s already too late.

Heather hasn’t twigged either. She keeps smiling. “You got married too, right?”

Richie doesn’t even want to look at Eddie, so he looks at April. Her face has fallen in the manner of one watching their loved one faceplant on the sidewalk after falling from their bike. She reads his expression and her eyes are understanding, apologetic.

He’s not offended that she thinks he’s gay. Is he? Well, he’s old enough and has had enough sweaty nightclub hook-ups to know that he _is, _even if he can’t admit that to anyone else. But somehow, her thinking that Eddie and him are married is so much worse. Her accidentally guessing would be one thing, but he doesn’t even know what Eddie’s going to say. He wants to apologise, almost, that Eddie’s being tarred with the same brush. What if Eddie stops talking to him? No, that’s ridiculous, it’s just a misunderstanding. It’s fine. It doesn’t need to be horrifically awkward.

“I’m not – I’m not married to Richie, that would be – ridiculous,” Eddie stumbles out, not looking at him. He half-laughs, nervously, and it sounds hollow to Richie. “I’m married to Myra. A woman. Obviously,” he follows up, quickly.

Heather’s eyes flick to Richie, and she looks truly, deeply guilty. “Oh, I’m – I’m so sorry, I’m such an idiot, I just assumed –“ she breaks off. “Rich, the last thing I wanted to do was make you - I don’t know why I thought…” she trails off awkwardly.

He manages to grin, drawing on reserves of maturity he didn’t realise he had. He also realises he’s not really mad at her. If he was going to start getting mad at people for saying something stupid to a friend, or making offensive or bad assumptions, he’d be standing in one hell of a glass house. “No, Heath, it’s so not a big deal, don’t even worry,” he says easily. “Honestly, I’m flattered you think anyone would want to marry all _this_,” he says, gesturing to his body. “But actually, we all know I’m saving myself to be Cindy Crawford’s second husband.”

Heather grins, apologetically. “You can be her youthful toyboy,” she says, going with it.

He laughs. “Yeah, exactly. First I need to chuck in the standup and get a job as her pool boy.”

She laughs. April looks tentatively more calm now that they’ve weathered the awkwardness.

“Well, we’d probably better go, I’ve gotta get some stuff from the pharmacy, but I’d love to stay in touch with you, Rich,” Heather says, kindly.

He nods. “Of course, I was just about to give you my details. Can I put it in your phone?”

She agrees, and gives him her phone, and details are exchanged. He hugs Heather, and April even hugs him this time, maybe out of second-hand guilt for earlier.

“Good running into you,” Eddie says to her. “Watch out for Gretta, she’s in a rage.”

Richie smiles, twisted. “Good.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” Heather says to Eddie, and turns to Richie. “Take care of yourself, ok?” she says, kindly, looking at him in the way she used to. Concerned affection.

He nods, smiling more warmly. “You too. See you round, Heath.”

She smiles, and April waves him goodbye as she follows Heather into the pharmacy.

“What are the chances of her being here –“ Eddie starts, bemusedly.

“Are we getting lunch or what? I’m fucking _starving_,” he says, and storms off towards the street where they parked the car.

“Excuse me for trying to talk to you, asshole,” Eddie says irritably, behind him.

They find the car, and get in, in a sort of unusually uncomfortable silence, but Eddie doesn’t turn the motor on.

“What’s going on with you?” he asks, looking irritable, and worse, concerned.

Richie stares at him for a moment. “Why would being married to me be ridiculous?” he says quietly, no nicknames this time.

“What?” Eddie asks, sounding completely caught off guard.

“You heard me,” Richie continues, steadily. “What would be so ridiculous about it?”

Eddie stares at him, completely lost – and yet there’s something, something fearful in his eyes. “Is this a bit, Richie?” he asks. “Because I don’t –“

“Before, you said it. To Heather, and I wanna fuckin’ know why,” he says, realising he’s angered himself into earnestness, which is never good. He glares at Eddie. “You know, you should be so fucking lucky, _Eddie, _a lot of people would be _dying _to marry me!”

“Why are you freaking out about this?” Eddie says, voice going higher with irritation. “I just stated a fact and you’re inexplicably being more of an asshole than usual. Are you bored? Hungry? Because if you’d let me start the car we can go to the diner.”

Richie feels a hot surge of indignant anger. This isn’t like usual. This isn’t part of the dance. “Don’t fucking _treat me_ like a baby, Eddie! You’re not more of adult than me just because you’re _married_ and you have the world’s most _fucking _boring job, alright?”

Eddie’s face works furiously. “Well don’t fucking _act_ like a baby then, Richie, for _fuck’s sake_!”

Richie glares at him. “I saw your face when you said it, ok? You seemed fucking _horrified, _like the _very thought _was your worst nightmare, you could’ve just said _oh we’re not married_, like any of our friends would have fucking done calmly, but you had to qualify it like, don’t forget I’m straight, I’m married to a woman, don’t tar with me the same fucking brush as this fa –“

“Richie, what the _fuck?_” Eddie interrupts, and it would be funny that his voice has gotten even higher with anger but right now he’s too furious to laugh at it, which makes him even angrier. He looks furious too, and strangely hurt, but Richie refuses to feel guilty. “She caught me off guard, ok, what was I fucking supposed to say? And what are _you_ even saying?” he says, and his voice shakes on the last question. His hand unconsciously goes to his pocket, where he would have kept his inhaler if he still had it. Maybe he does. He’s afraid, Richie realises.

Good, he thinks savagely. 

Richie’s heart beats fast. He glares at Eddie, and knows if he wasn’t so angry he could figure out exactly what he really wanted to say. Or he could take a breath and not blow up his whole life in this one moment. But fuck it, he’s never been that guy. He’s Trashmouth.

“I’m saying I’m fucking gay,” he says, and Eddie’s expression is infuriatingly hard to read. He’s definitely shocked. “And I never thought you’d fucking _care_ if people thought you were one or the other, but like mother like son, huh?” he spits.

Eddie’s eyebrows are contracted so much they’re almost touching. He mouths something wordlessly and then stops, looking kind of like a fish, which would make Richie laugh on any other day.

Richie looks out the windscreen, ignoring the hot pinpricks in his eyes. “I’m so fucking sick of this town. I’m so fucking sick of following you around like a puppy, trying to get your attention. It was only slightly less pathetic when we were thirteen, Jesus _fuckin’ _Christ.”

“Richie –“ Eddie manages, sounding aggrieved. Richie wonders why, it’s not like he’s the hurt one.

“And why would I give a shit about you of all people? You were definitely my weirdest friend, with your hypochondria and your weird fucking mom, and your weird co-dependent drama with her,” Richie throws out, deciding to throw more gasoline on the garbage-dump tire fire that is currently his life. And then he cues up the kill shot. “But I guess you liked it so much you fucking married your mom, right? Tell me, what does she really think about you being here, with all of us? Because I keep seeing you dodging her calls every five seconds. Does Mommy want Eddie Bear back home?”

The shots hit their mark with lethal accuracy, and Eddie looks hurt and angrier than he’s ever seen. Or rather, angrier than he’s ever been at Richie, including that time he was very rude to Carrie at a party. He is white with anger.

“Well, at least I’m not a washed-up, commitment-phobic fucking lame-ass comedian who definitely doesn’t even write his own shit!” Eddie unleashes, shaking with suppressed rage.

Richie has to hand it to him, he’s always known exactly how to hit back. “Better than being a fucking neutered bitch in a loveless, Oedipal marriage and a fucking boring job I only got because I was too afraid to go to med school, Eds!”

Eddie has gone red, glaring at him with absolute ferocity.

“Fuck you, Richie!” he says, vibrating with hurt and fury. There’s no warmth in it. “Why are you so angry at me?” he asks.

“Fuck you, Eddie. You fucking know why. Or don’t you remember?” Richie returns, glaring at him, angrier than he’s ever been – at least with Eddie. “Actually you know what? Fuck this. I’ll find my own way home,” he says, and gets out of the car. He’s not even sure what he means by _home _right now.

Eddie doesn’t say anything or try to stop him.

“Alright, where is the nearest bar? There has to still be a bar in this shitbox town, right?” he says to himself, walking instinctively forward.

***

Mike really _does _like DIY and fixing household things. Maybe it’s part of spending so long on a farm, where there wasn’t a lot of money to replace things if they broke, but he’s developed a skill for repairs.

Stan seems to approach things of that nature as a necessary evil. He says if he’s been called on to do it, he’ll try and do it, but he doesn’t enjoy it.

Mike could be fooled by the way Stan looks as they paint the house.

It’s not that big of a job, together.They’d noticed the paint work around part of the back of the house had been noticeably damaged by the weather, and Mike had said they could probably easily fix it in an afternoon – but doing it alone would be much more of an undertaking.

"So you think it's a good adaptation?" Stan asks.

"Yeah, I think so, it's really well produced. I mean, the scenery is _amazing. _I would watch it for that alone. It almost makes me want to go to Russia and see it, because so much there is _fascinating_ for a history nerd like me, but also, I get a bit nervous,” Mike says, doing careful, even brushstrokes.

Stan chuckles, a dark edge to it. “Yeah, I can understand that. It’s a shame because I’ve wanted to visit the Hermitage Museum forever, but yeah, there are a _few_ things about me that would make me personally anxious to be there.” He matches Mike’s brushstrokes, and Mike watches Stan’s hands for a few seconds before going back to his.

“Mhm,” Mike agrees, understanding. “But yeah, I actually think it’s a pretty great adaptation, and you know how I feel about the book, so.”

Stan chuckles, lighter. “Yeah, I do. I can’t believe you’ve read _War and Peace_ multiple times, you madman. I only managed it once, damn.”

“But you did it at fifteen, which is cooler.” Mike grins. “I think I first read it on your recommendation, actually.”

“Oh…” Stan says, not expecting that, smiling to himself. “Cool.”

“And I know it’s so long, but I love those epics. And they’re really interesting ways of learning bits of history that might not be common knowledge, because at the time it was common for these guys to try and educate their audiences with tangents about history and geography. There’s something about it that – _what_?” Mike breaks off, embarrassed. “Why are you looking at me like that? Am I that lame?”

Stan is looking at him in a funny way, sort of smiling, affectionate – but in a ‘what a cool story’ way or a ‘God, my friend is such a nerd, aw’ way, Mike doesn’t know. He can probably guess.

“No, no,” Stan laughs, shaking his head. “I’m not making fun of you! I just –“ he seems to look for words, momentarily pausing. “I love the way you talk about things that interest you, you get this look in your eye and you just light up.”

Mike is caught off guard, and smiles wider. “Oh,” he says, after a moment. “Cool.”

Stan grins. “Very.”

They look at each other for a moment, again. Mike is increasingly glad to see how the deadened look in Stan’s eye that was there when they first met up again, when he came back, is almost gone. He still looks tired, but today his face is open and happy, the look he used to get when he was totally chilled-out and hanging out with everyone. Which is of course, why he’s so happy right now – everyone being here. Mike can’t ever thank them enough.

“So, that’s what you like about _War and Peace_, the history? Why am I not surprised?” Stan starts again, as they go back to painting, grinning still.

“It’s not just that – it’s the characters,” Mike rebuts, with a matching grin, painting next to him. “I like the length of the story. Pierre and Natasha go through so much, and Pierre is a such a good guy, that even though he’s in love with Natasha, he watches as his friend falls for her and proposes to her, and he doesn’t try to do anything because he wants them to be happy,” he says, and pauses. “And also because he’s married to Helene, but he doesn’t love her, so he could be a total dick and attempt to go for Natasha but he doesn’t. Because he values his friends’ happiness above what he wants.”

“Remind you of anyone, then?” Stan says, in an odd tone.

Mike’s hand slips and the brushstroke he’s doing slips out of its neat line. He can paint over it easy, but it’s starkly out of place as it is. “Yeah, I – I always pictured Pierre a bit like a Russian Ben.”

Stan snort-laughs. "Actually yeah, I can see it."

Mike laughs too.

“Except that Ben is much less ridiculous, and would have probably been smart enough not to marry Helene, but for what I said before? The selflessness? Very Ben.”

“True,” Stan agrees. He looks sidelong at Mike. “Also kind of reminded me of someone else, though,” he says, meaningfully. “Another childhood friend of mine, also a pretty selfless guy?”

Mike looks at him, surprised. “I guess – I can understand that, although I’ve never –“ he pauses, and smiles. “I’ve always liked Pierre, even though he makes some dumb decisions in the story. But I just like - how he feels about Natasha grows and changes, because she’s younger than him, and at first he just sees her as a family friend, and then when they’re both older he realises he’s in love with her. But it takes them a long time for their paths to meet again, and just when they’ve lost – so much, they find each other again and are able to support each other in this time when they’re…grieving, and they grow closer because of it.”

He finishes, wondering why he has to babble about _War and Peace _so much, and he can’t stop looking at Stan. Stan doesn’t look away either, his eyes reflecting some kind of strong emotion. They’re not that far from each other. He could just – lean forward and _just _– but he doesn’t, because Stan is right – he is Pierre. And maybe Andrei will come back from the war, or maybe he won’t, but Pierre doesn’t know and so he can’t.

Stan leans forward a little. Mike’s heart beats. Stan leans over and paints over the line Mike had made accidentally before.

Mike laughs, letting the tension out. “Oh it’s like that?”

“It’s like that,” Stan says, grinning. “Can’t get sloppy on the job.”

“Oh, it’s like _that,_” Mike says indignantly, and jabs at Stan with his paintbrush.

Stan gasps. “I can’t believe you got paint on me!”

“It’s _nothing_,” Mike responds, grinning.

“I’ll give you _nothing,_” Stan responds, and paints a swipe down Mike’s cheek.

Mike gasps this time. “Oh you’re in for it now, friend,” he says, and darts forward. Stan cackles, and dodges the first jab but the second connects to his face, and a paint war commences.

“If you get paint on my glasses, I will end you, Hanlon,” Stan threatens.

Mike grins evilly. “Well then you shouldn’t have started the attack, Uris,” he says and swipes forward again.

Mike doesn’t know what it is about being around people you grew up with that makes you become more childish – an old episode of _How I Met Your Mother _called it ‘Revertigo’ – but it’s a real thing. He’s not getting into paint fights when he does household fixes normally. Then again, he’s usually the only one doing them.

He has Stan cornered against a section of the wall without drying paint – he’s not a monster – and he’s got one arm on the wall to stop him from sneaking off, but then he suddenly realises how close they are.

They’re laughing until they’re suddenly not. Stan stares back at him, breathing shallowly. Mike is suddenly very aware of the sound. He reaches up with the hand that’s already next to Stan’s neck, and very, very slowly strokes a swipe of blue paint on Stan’s cheek.

He doesn’t know why he’s doing it, almost feeling like his hand is possessed.

Stan might tell him to go to hell, to stop, because that’s not their relationship any more. But he doesn’t. He looks like he’s stopped breathing, and watches Mike, with an element of anxiety.

He doesn’t tell him not to.

Mike looks at him, and wants to say something. Words somehow feel inadequate for what he’s feeling, for what he wants to say. There’s really only one action that will truly be able to get it across.

He leans forward, hesitant, but Stan moves forward. Definitive. There’s so little space between them now, just –

There’s a crash in the hallway. Stan tenses, pulls back.

Mike pulls back.

“What was that?” Stan asks, pink-cheeked but anxious.

“_YO LISTEN UP HERE’S A STORY –_ “ comes a distant, off-key, and unmistakeably Richie voice from the hall.

Mike frowns worriedly at Stan, backing off as well. Stan looks worried too. 

“We should go – “ they both say at once. They’re awkward now, trying to get out of each other’s way.

He follows Stan back towards the back door. Stan looks back a moment at him, awkward, like he’s going to say something. But he doesn’t.

Mike ignores how much it reminds him of the aftermath of a kiss in a dark synagogue, and follows him inside. He can’t pretend that was nothing. Their timing has always been terrible.

***

Stan walks into the hallway, heart beating fast, Mike following him.

He needs to figure out why Richie’s crashing around and singing 90s electronica. Could just be Richie being Richie, but he has a bad feeling about it.

Then, maybe he can deal with whatever just happened – or didn’t happen – with Mike. It felt like _something. _But he can’t deal with it right now, so he shoves it roughly to the back of his mind.

Richie is getting untangled from the umbrella stand when Stan reaches the hallway.

“Stanislavsky, my good man!” he says, in his bad British-man voice. His voice is too loud, and slurred. “And Michael! Splendid!”

“What happened here?” Stan asks, slowly.

“S’your bloody umbrella stand, lad, it picked a fight with me, it did,” Richie continues. His eyes aren’t focusing behind his glasses. “Why d’you even have one, who even needs it?”

“Are you _drunk_ right now?” Stan says, completely stunned.

Richie narrows his eyes, barely focusing on Stan. “So what if I am? You’re not my mother,” he says , dropping the accent with a too-bitter grin.

“Richie…” Mike begins in a soft, concerned way.

Richie grins more, and it doesn’t look at all right on him. “Oh, look out, it’s Mike’s preschool teacher voice! Sorry Mike, neither are you. Maggie Tozier’s way less broad in the shoulders.”

Stan flicks his eyes to Mike, who looks very worried, and then back to Richie.

“Richie, no-one’s trying to tell you what to do, but it’s generally not normal for someone to be this drunk this early in the afternoon. What happened?” Stan asks, trying to be calm.

Richie whistles, grinning. “Well, clearly you haven’t been around _me_ in years, because day drinking is a time-honoured ritual in my circles.”

Stan doesn’t miss the implicit barb. “Richie,” Mike says again, ever-so-slightly more scolding than before.

“What?” Richie says, with a laugh, like he’s a kid in trouble again and he’s feigning innocence. “Dad’s disappointed in me now. I’m not saying anything by it, I’m just stating a fact. We don’t actually know each other anymore.”

That one hurts more.

Stan knows he’s drunk, but still. He’s missed many things about Richie, all of his good qualities and even his annoying habits. He has not missed this Richie. This restless, angry-about-something-but-won’t-tell-you-what Richie.

This Richie is dangerous. Not engaging and letting him burn himself out is the only way to avoid a catastrophic fight.

Stan looks at Mike.

“I’m going to call Bev or someone,” Mike says to him in an undertone. “Do you need me to stay?”

“No, it’s alright,” Stan says quietly.

Mike nods, throws a sympathetic look Richie’s way and moves back out of the hallway.

“You know I fucking _hate_ it when you talk about me like I’m not here,” Richie says, rearing up for a fight. “I’m not a fucking child. I’m certainly not _your _fucking child.”

Stan bites back the _well don’t act like one then _response he used to use when Richie would say that, when they were in their late teens, because from memory it only made him crazier.

He tries to think about where Richie was going the last time he saw him. He’d had a weird energy then, too, but he’d been in a good mood, Stan had been sure of it. He’d said something about going to the pharmacy with – Stan’s heart sinks. He’s remembering this mood now; specifically, what used to set Richie off.

“Did something happen with Eddie?” Stan asks, calmly.

Richie’s face contorts, and Stan regrets asking. Mike should be doing this, he always had a talent for calming people down. Stan always finds himself getting more and more annoyed.

Richie forces his face into a twisted smirk. “_Did something happen with Eddie_?” he sings-songs mockingly. “Why do you always assume that? I haven’t seen him since this morning.”

Stan gives him a look.

“Come on, you know why,” he says quietly. “And because he’s the only one who seems to upset you this much.” He’s trying to be comforting. He worries it’s coming out more annoyed.

Richie feigns ignorance, which is annoying on its own. How long do they have to dance around this, pretending they don’t know what they know?

“I’m not _upset,_” Richie retorts. “I’m fine.”

“You seem it,” Stan replies flatly. “Obviously, something happened, alright? We’re friends, Rich, you can talk to me about it, you know I’m not going to judge whatever it is.” Richie glares at him, and Stan wonders how bad it was. There’s this hurt in his eyes that Stan had only seen, not when he’d been targeted by bullies, but when he’d had his worst fights with friends – mostly Eddie, sometimes Bill, very occasionally Stan himself, on one occasion Bev.

“We used to tell each other everything, you know?” Stan tries, realising he’s genuinely worried about Richie. “We can still do that, Rich.”

Richie’s eyes flash, something changes in him and Stan doesn’t think it’s for the better.

“Did we though, Stan? Because, these days I’m feeling like that was bullshit. Like, I was telling you all my shit,” he says, suddenly bitter. He pauses to glare at Stan, and Stan wonders if this is him acknowledging it, at least. Then he unexpectedly smirks in a vicious, bitter way. Stan doesn’t like it. “But apparently you weren’t doing the same, huh? Hiding your fucking secrets like a smart kid instead of blabbing them to your best friends. Smarter in the end, I think.”

Stan’s heart misses a beat, an unpleasant feeling like falling down a step. “What are you talking about, Richie?” he says, as evenly as he can.

Richie smirks more. Stan knows this look. It’s rare and he’d forgotten how much he hates it. This Richie has a trump card, something he _knows _will get you, regardless of the aftermath. And he never used to be able to resist playing it, if it could win him the fight. Or at least burn everything down.

“You know, I did think I knew you. Every boring, rule-following, bird-watching, compulsive neurotic part of you,” Richie starts, and Stan tenses, frowning.

“Wow, thanks Rich,” he says, but Richie hasn’t finished.

“But turns out you’re a bit of a dark horse, Stanley the Manley. You kept a big secret, and I never even suspected. Not until I found _this _the other day,” he says, and pulls out a familiar, clearly-opened, envelope.

Stan’s stomach drops like a millstone. He stares at it, and remembers writing the address. The way his heart had been beating like crazy, _thumpthumpthumpthump, _just writing the name on it. He’d almost forgotten it existed, and would’ve assumed it got thrown out years ago. He wasn’t about to keep it. How is it here? And how in the everloving _fuck_ does Richie have it?

“Where did you get that?” he asks, keeping his voice steady.

Richie smirks. “Does it fuckin’ matter, my man? It’s what’s inside it that’s important.”

Stan stares at him, feeling angrier by the second, but refuses to give in. Though he can’t keep the sting out of his voice when he says, “So you read it, then?”

Richie rolls his eyes, and grins like he’s just done something a little selfish but ultimately funny, like taking the last slice of pizza. “Stan, I know, I know, I should have given it _back_. But you wouldn’t be curious? I just thought it would be some boring shit you wanted to tell Mike about birds and never did. I never thought it was –“

“Richie,” he says, warningly.

“What?” he asks, mock-innocent. “It’s a good thing isn’t it? It’s not like I’m against it, obviously. _Mike and you_. What was it about you, do you think? The way you always wore belts with your shorts because you were forty from the time you were a kid?”

“Richie,” he says again, curt. “I’m not Eddie. You can’t bait me like that. So just stop, alright?”

Richie’s eyes flash nastily again. He’s not really focussing, maybe too drunk, but Stan is finding it hard to sympathise when he’s so angry inside.

“You’re not him, that’s for fucking certain,” Richie replies quickly, squinting at him angrily. “He was my best friend because he fucking told me shit.”

“That’s what this is?” Stan asks, composure starting to crack. “You’re mad I didn’t –“

“I’m not mad,” Richie says, clearly lying. “Game recognises game, right, Stangie? You got me to tell you my shit and the whole time you had a big ol’ secret of your own.” He smirks, twisted up. “What was it like with him? Was it good? What’s he packing, like a pencil or a pyt –“

“Shut the hell up, Richie. For _once_,” Stan interrupts, shaking his head. “God, I know you’re wasted but I forgot what an _asshole_ you can be, Jesus.”

Richie makes a dismissive _pfft _sound. “At least I’m honest.”

Stan is so winded by the self-unawareness in this statement that he laughs incredulously. “You? Honest?” he says, and he wouldn’t start it, but he didn’t, Richie did, and he’s getting fed up. “You are the least honest person I know, _Trashmouth_, I’ve seen your comedy. All those _my girlfriend caught me jerking off _jokes. And I _know_ you’re capable of so much more, but you go for lazy straight frat-boy jokes because they’re _easier. _I sometimes wonder if you even write your own stuff, it’s so lazy. And so not you. I don’t think even you think you’re honest.”

This hits, Stan can tell. He shouldn’t have taken the bait, but it’s gotten beyond a joke. And he’s sick of giving Richie free passes for being an asshole because he’s young, or drunk or sad.

Richie’s face works for a moment. “Everyone thinks they know my job today, wow! You wouldn’t last a _minute_ doing what I do. But I guess you’re so fucking good at judging from the sidelines you made it your whole job, so thanks for the free psychoanalysis _Stanley _but I’m good. I don’t need some cliché of a depressed therapist telling me what’s wrong with my life.”

The silence is spiky, and they’re both breathing heavy. Stan had feared he was going to start crying _again _before, but he’s not upset. Well he is, but more than that he’s fucking _angry _and that is the thing keeping the stopper in the bottle.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice the paint,” Richie says, and Stan almost thinks there’s something like regret in his eyes, but it’s gone the next second.

Stan is momentarily confused, and then remembers with a hot burst of embarrassment that he’s still obviously got paint on his face from earlier. Which he would have assumed Richie would point out immediately, but perhaps he was saving it up.

“Mike had paint on his face too, didn’t he?” Richie continues, warming up. “You guys get confused about what you were doing? Have a little paint fight?”

Stan doesn’t say anything, but continues to glare at him.

“Aw, that’s so sweet,” Richie says, with a mocking smile. He gets a smile then like something’s occurred to him. “Or is it still happening? Are you still fuc–“

“Fuck _off, _Richie,” Stan says with feeling. _Too far _has always been a foreign concept to Richie.

Richie chuckles, but it’s hollow. “Well, better you’re getting some than the alternative, which is that you’re pathetically trying to get your high school ex’s attention in increasingly childish ways.”

Again, Stan is struck dumb by the lack of self-awareness. He laughs, but it’s almost too bitter to be considered one. “Seriously, do you fucking hear yourself talk sometimes? _I’m _pathetic and childish?” He shakes his head. “You’ve been doing the exact same thing since you got back, like we all knew you would, except at least in my case he is my _fucking_ ex, Rich,” he says, with quiet, cold exactitude. “I think the reason you’re so bent out of shape at me is because you’re mad I did with Mike what you never had the balls to with Eddie.”

He’s not drunk. It’s not fair for him to unload like this. But why is being drunk a free pass? And if Richie’s gonna dish it out, he’s got several decades of grievances to hit back with.

Richie goes white. Stan can tell he’s touched a nerve, and somewhere in the back of his brain he’s regretful about it. But he’s too hurt and angry to care about it right now.

“Fuck you, Stan,” Richie hits back, too angry to pretend that it’s all a joke now. “I said you were a cliché earlier, and I’ll admit I’m one too. Depressed comedian who drinks too much, it’s almost on the nose it’s so cliché. But you think _your_ mental health shit is special? You think it’s worse than mine or Bev’s or any of ours?”

Stan’s heart is beating very fast, painfully so. Icy fingers are gripping him, up through his gut. If they were children again, he’d say _beep beep, _but he can’t bring himself to do it now.

Richie is breathing fast, and he pauses for a moment. Stan wills him to stop. But once Richie’s on a destructive tear there’s no stopping him, and damn whatever he burns down with it.

“We _all_ fucking went into the sewers. We _all_ got terrorised by that psycho clown fuck. I got fucking _kidnapped _and so did Bev, and I still _dream _about it sometimes. The only difference is that you couldn’t fucking _cope_, and now we all have to walk on eggshells around you. But you were always the most _scared_, right?” he says, pronouncing _scared_ like he means another word, one that rhymes with _peak._ “Is that why you did it? How’s that for your fucking honesty?”

The silence is atomic. They stare at each other, unsure of who’s going to make the next move.

Stan finally finds his voice, breathing heavily. “Get. _The fuck_. Out of my house. _Richie._” His voice is ice-cold with anger, shaking a little. “I don’t care where you go, but I don’t want to see your face.”

Richie glares with glazed-eyes, silent, not moving.

“Maybe fucking _ever_,” Stan finishes icily. Maybe he means it too. He doesn’t know.

Richie doesn’t need telling twice.

He gives Stan a hard look, throws the letter on the ground, bratty, and storms out, slamming the door. Stan half wonders if he’s going to drive and decides he doesn’t care.

He just stands numbly in the hallway, looking at the letter on the ground. He knows what it is, because there was only ever one letter he wrote Mike that he never sent.

This is the problem. Not being able to let go of each other is the problem, ironically, considering they’ve also been really good at doing that to each other accidentally the last few years. But he was never able to cut Richie off, even when he was truly angry with him. It’s this thing between them, the kind of trauma that no one else understands. It was only amplified with Mike, how he couldn’t quite let go.

He feels sick to his stomach. Richie had basically accused him of doing what what he did because he’s the weakest of them. He doesn’t know whether to defend himself or agree. He is weak. _So_ weak. Weak enough not to tell Patty, even though they didn’t lie to each other about any other exes. Weak enough to keep having Mike there, as his best man, and then even distantly because he pathetically couldn’t lose the friendship as well as the romantic relationship. 

He bends to pick up the letter, and feels the surprising weight of it. That’s right – he’d put that tape in there too. He can’t bear to look at the contents, he thinks he might be hanging on by a thread, and he does not want to cry.

As he’s straightening up, he hears Mike’s footsteps toward him.

“That sounded really bad, _Jesus_,” Mike says, sympathetically. “Are you…how are you doing, Stan?”

He looks so concerned, and Stan’s stomach twists sickly. He’s still got paint on his face too, and Richie’s words ring distorted and loud in his ears. “I don’t know,” he says quickly. “Did you talk to Bev?”

Mike nods, looking very solemn. “And Eddie. He told me that they had a fight a few hours ago, and it was bad enough that Richie stormed off from the car. He must have _walked _back here, or something, totally drunk.”

“Well that tracks,” Stan replies, failing to not sound bitter and sarcastic. “What did Bev say?”

“Well, I told her what Eddie told me, and that I heard him leave. She said she’d try and track him down. I’m a bit worried, she sounded –“ Mike’s face changes, looking strangely at the thing he’s holding. “Is that my name, on that?”

Fear spikes through Stan’s gut as he realises he’s holding the envelope address side out.

***

“No,” Stan says, too quickly, turning it around so he can’t see the name on it.

Stan looks awful, crushed, and Mike doesn’t know what to do. He shouldn’t have left. It’s too easy for them to push each other’s buttons, it always has been.

The envelope definitely has his name on it, but maybe it’s not important.

“What happened with Richie?” he asks, worried.

Stan looks away, eyes hard and glassy. “I don’t –“ he says after a moment. “He shouldn’t have come back. It certainly wasn’t for me.”

“Don’t say that,” Mike starts.

“It’s true, though,” Stan retorts bitterly.

Maybe he couldn’t have stopped the fight erupting, but he should have been here. Stan looks wrecked, and Mike just wants to hold him. He’s still got paint on his face.

Mike thinks about before, and realises he was right to link it to that time at the synagogue. They’re not going to talk about it because of the fight.

“What did he say to you?” Mike asks.

Stan looks irritable. “Same bullshit as always. I just can’t be his friend right now, I don’t need the fucking drama.”

Worse than he thought, then. “I’m sure he didn’t mean whatever he said. You know what he’s like when he’s drunk, if he’s in a bad mood already,” Mike tries.

Stan looks more irritated. “Why does that make it fucking ok? Drunkenness just makes you more honest. And if he wants to get drunk in the day and be a shit to me, then I don’t need him around.” Stan frowns at him. “Don’t look at me like that Mike, I’m fine.”

He doesn’t look or seem it. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, they look red and tired.

“I’m not –“ Mike starts, and Stan gives him a look. “I’m worried about you. You seem very upset, and I just - I wish I could make it better.”

Stan looks at him, a storm of emotions caught in his expression. There’s a flash of something like guilt or remorse in it. “Why?” he says, tiredly.

Mike is greatly taken aback. “Why am I worried about you?” he says, confused and uneasy. “Because you’re my friend, and I care about whether you’re happy?”

Stan frowns more, eyes still storming. “Is that it?” he says, spikily. “Why are you here? Why are you doing all this for me? Because I’m starting to feel like I’ve been a convenient excuse for everyone to abandon their problems and see the people they’ve got unfinished business with. So what do _you_ want, Mike?”

“I…_what_?” Mike says, completely stunned. Richie has really done a number on him, clearly, but he hadn’t been expecting to be next up in the firing line. Especially from Stan. “I’m here because I want to help you. Because, in case you’ve forgotten, we’re friends.”

Stan looks exhausted, and angry, and there’s something that might be guilt even, but Mike can’t tell. “Really?” he asks, in his _I’m too tired for this bullshit _voice, the one he almost never uses on Mike. “Because you’ve been pretty overly-friendly lately, and my head is already fucked up enough right now without you trying to confuse me. I mean, God, before? If I didn’t know better –“ He trails off for a moment, half-glaring at Mike with misty eyes. “I’d think it would be a pretty crass time to try and make a move, when I’m already dealing with so much shit.”

Now Mike is getting angry. People can say a lot of shitty things to him and he won’t react, because usually none of that means anything. But Stan – saying _this _– that means something.

He shakes his head at Stan, momentarily speechless. “What the _fuck, _Stan? Do you seriously feel like that?”

He looks incredulously at Stan, feeling the hurt pooling up from his gut. Stan stares back, and he recognises this look, both indignant and regretful. He’d had it during the argument they had on Prom night. Like he thinks he’s both right and regrets ever speaking. But he’s started this now, is the problem.

“I’m still married, you know?” Stan bursts out, with upset frustration. “She was everything to me, and I’ve lost her, and I just – I can’t fucking deal with whatever’s happening here, and whatever you want from me, ok?”

“What _I –_“ Mike starts, breathing too hard. The hurt and righteous anger spikes up, and he finds something in him breaking, letting loose something that he’s been holding back for too long. “I don’t know what happened with Patty. You won’t tell me, which I thought was fair. But don’t you _dare _tell me – that I’m being _selfish_, somehow, when all I’ve been doing – all I’ve _ever _tried to do, is make things easier for you. I did it after the synagogue, I did it that summer, and then I stayed in touch with you because I knew you couldn’t – and I didn’t want to lose you too, but I stayed your friend even when it fucking _hurt. _Even when you invited me to meet your new girlfriend and she was great and I could _see _how you felt about her, and I was happy you were happy, but somewhere inside of me it still hurt, and I still kept being your friend.”

Stan looks hurt, and surprisingly stunned. “You – you dated people in college too, ok!” he retorts. “Don’t think that didn’t suck for me too!” Mike notices him clutching the letter in his hand tightly. He doesn’t ask.

“It wasn’t anywhere near the same as seeing you falling in love with Patty, and you know it!” Mike says, quick like a shot.

Stan pales.

“And I got it, ok, I liked her a lot. I could see how she made you better, and how in love you were with each other, so I buried the feeling, and I was –“ Mike breaks off, and looks down, shaking his head. “I was your _best man_, God, Stan. Do you have any idea?” he says, in a strangled voice. He’s more upset about this than he realised, like he’s been waiting to say it forever but he didn’t even know it was there.

“Well, I’m sorry it’s been such a nightmare being my friend, Mike,” Stan snaps, eyes threatening to overflow. “But I don’t know what you think this is. I’m busy just coping with the smoking ruin of my life. I’m sorry if I’ve led you on.”

Mike just stares at him, disbelieving, a faint roaring in his ears. It almost feels like he’s been shot and he’s in shock. A distinct British voice in the back of his head – Colin Firth? – comes to mind, _Well I can see I’ve been labouring under a misapprehension. _ If only he could be so curt and British at this moment, but he says instead, “Well, I guess you don’t need me here then. I have to – I can’t be here with you any – any longer,” he says, barely able to look at Stan.

He picks up his jacket, and walks into the hallway. Behind him, as he reaches the door, he hears a strangled _Mike _but this time he doesn’t turn around again.

He just walks out of the house, blinking in the sun.

He gets into his car, feeling dazed, breathing heavily. Stan had been – totally out of line. And yet – he doesn’t like the gnawing tendrils of guilt reaching up from his gut, the nasty whisper in his head that maybe Stan’s right, maybe he was trying to exploit the situation. After being single for a while, rarely ever in a serious relationship, seeing the perfect relationship of one of the people he loves most suddenly disintegrate, maybe he did selfishly want something to happen.

He catches sight of himself in the rearview. The paint streak on his face looks ridiculous, and it reminds him of what a nice morning it had been. He rubs at it angrily.

He manages to get most of it off, and sits there with his cheek throbbing, and then covers his face with his hands and starts to cry. After a few moments, he snaps himself out of it, and decides that he needs a drink.

He doesn’t know what time it is, but hell, the bar is almost certainly open. He puts the keys in the ignition, and drives off with purpose, blinking and sniffing occasionally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOOH NOOOOO! Sorry to end on such a painful cliffhanger, but thems the narrative breaks. Bear with me though, because these people love each other and they're family and if a serial killer can't take them down as children, they can see this painful part through!
> 
> Thanks, again, for sticking with it if you're here, I appreciate it! And I always love to hear what you thought of it :) Next update hopefully not far off, work/life permitting!


	7. Can I Handle The Seasons Of My Life?

Bev has had her phone off since earlier this morning. A blessing. The only people calling her are people she doesn’t want to hear from.

She plugs it in anyway, once she gets back to her room, out of habit.

She doesn’t look at it. She just showers – blissful, even with the limited facilities at the guest house – and changes.

Last night had been a long one, and she can’t exactly say she slept well. But she had woken up feeling surprisingly good. Which was highly unusual when she’s been crying late into the night.

She hasn’t even been back too long, something like two days but feels longer. Because it feels so familiar to be back with these people, it’s like settling in again. It already feels normal to be seeing them all, hanging out, even though it isn’t.

Ben had very kindly driven her back – well, they’d come in the same car, so it made sense but still – and they’d talked about nothing very important, but it was more the joy of being around him again that made it a nice drive back. He still has a quiet kindness in him, and she hadn’t realised how much she’d missed it.

As she’s leaving her room again, thinking vaguely of finding him and seeing what his plans are, she almost walks right into him in the hallway.

“Sorry,” she laughs. “Wasn’t looking.”

He smiles kindly, and his eyes crease at the edges. She thinks maybe his eyes did that when he was younger, but it’s gotten more pronounced with age. She likes it. He has such kind eyes. “That’s alright, neither was I.”

She smiles back at him. “Hi.”

He smiles more bemusedly, but replies, “Hi.”

“So, what are you up to today?” she asks.

He shrugs. “I didn’t have hard and fast plans other than going back to Stan’s at some point to help out, but…I was thinking of getting a coffee, if you wanted to come?”

She smiles more. “I’m _dying _for another coffee.”

He smiles openly at her. “Let’s go then.”

*

They go back to the same café they went to the morning before. It’s chilly but nice inside, and the sun still comes into the café in a nice way.

Bev notices, as she did yesterday, that all the waitresses, no matter how old they are, smile at Ben. They give her polite looks, but they’re clearly thrilled he’s back.

A pretty blonde waitress, not more than thirty-five by Bev’s estimation, comes up on them right on cue just after they find a table.

“Can I get you anything to start?” she says, ostensibly to them both, but smiling brightly at Ben.

“We’ll just be getting coffee, for now,” Ben says, politely, but with no sense of mutual interest.

The waitress takes their orders down, and smiles at him again. “That’ll be right out, sugar,” she says, very clearly not to Bev. Not antagonistic, she just doesn’t seem to have even noticed her.

After she leaves, Bev raises her eyebrows at him and smiles. “Someone’s popular around here.”

He colours, a little. “She was just being nice,” he says, smiling modestly.

Bev grins wickedly. “She didn’t look at me once, Ben. I think you’ve excited them all by coming in twice.”

Ben’s ears are going red. “Oh my god.”

She cackles. “Alright, I’ll stop teasing you. But I’m not wrong.”

“Thank you,” he says, grinning bashfully. “About the teasing. Not the other thing.”

She grins. “You’re welcome. For both.”

He grins and looks down awkwardly. There’s a beat.

“Actually, when I first – got in shape,” he says, like he’s uncomfortably searching for the most minimising phrase. “It did feel like people were just – nicer to me. People I didn’t know would say hi to me, and smile at me more. I don’t know, it’s been a while since, maybe I’m remembering it wrong.”

Bev’s heart goes out to him, retroactively annoyed at everyone else he ever met who couldn’t see what she always did until he fit their idea of handsome.

“Well, I just hope you remember we all knew you before – that_ – _and we loved you. So it wasn’t everyone,” she says, placing her hand slightly on his.

He smiles, and knocks over the salt shaker accidentally with his other hand. “Ah, God,” he says, righting it and blushing. “Thank you,” he says, quietly, smiling at her. But there’s a sadness in his eyes, like there’s something she doesn’t know.

The waitress – Katie – comes back with their drinks, and she gives them a definite look of interest when she sees their hands.

They spring apart to grab their cups.

“So, tell me more about this company?” Bev asks.

Ben shakes his head. “You don’t have to be nice, I’m sure listening to me talk about work would be super boring,” he says, with an abashed grin. 

“I’m not being _nice, _I’m interested, so tell me, ok?” she prompts, laughing.

“Alright,” he says, still a little pink in his cheeks. She watches him talk about this company he started, which has apparently grown well in its first seven years, and she marvels at how modest he still is. About the company, about how much work he’s put into it. By rights he should be an egomaniacal monster, the kind she’s met many times over the years. The kind she married, she thinks bitterly, before pushing the thought away. But he’s still seemingly the kind-hearted kid he was, now grown up, and it’s nothing short of a miracle.

“So, we’re working with this homeless charity to build some community housing specifically for ex-homeless and low-income people with mental illnesses, because it’s really hard for them to get leases the way other people do. I’m pretty excited about it,” he says, and she likes the look in his eyes when he talks about it. “Have I been talking too much?” he says, sheepishly.

She shakes her head, smiling. “No, no, I’m just really interested, I don’t wanna stop you!”

He beams. She beams back. “That is _incredibly_ cool, though, that you’re trying to do that, Ben. Although I’m not surprised.”

He shrugs. “I mean, we’re just providing the foundation, this charity is amazing, they do so much work to support disadvantaged people. I guess I just thought, we’re in a good place, we can invest in this and it won’t just be another set of apartments for rich yuppies to buy up, and it might actually do some good, why not?” He says, and she can see how in another life he might have become a social worker or something because he genuinely _cares_, and that is _so rare _among even the philanthropic businessmen she’s met. “I just don’t want to be like, Scrooge, or whoever, counting my coins. I want to use my – privilege, I guess – for good, and not just to make myself as rich as possible, because I’ve met those guys and they’re so…empty. Even with everything they have, literal billions, and they can’t feel satisfied. Full.” He half-laughs. “I’m sorry, was that a bit of rant?”

She grins. “Maybe, but I totally agree. I’ve met too many of those assholes, and I’m – so glad you’re not like them. I don’t know how you managed it.”

He chuckles. “I don’t think I’m all that…but I think it was partly you guys, you know? I liked myself most when I was with you guys, so I didn’t want to become…some asshole who you’d – you’d all hate.”

“Oh,” she says, touched. She looks at him and smiles. “That’s really sweet. I don’t think any of us could hate you, though.”

He lights up. “I think it’d be pretty impossible to hate you too,” he says, and takes a sip of coffee.

She smiles into her own coffee.

“But enough about me. You said you were designing clothes?” Ben says, interestedly, after a moment.

“Yeah,” she says. “We’re doing pretty well.” It’s hard for her to be as excited about it. She used to be, it used to be a dream job, but thinking of it just reminds her of Tom.

Ben looks excited. “That was your dream, though, wasn’t it? That’s amazing you did that. You were always making your own clothes, and they always looked…great.”

She smiles at him, still feeling a little sad. “Thanks, Ben. I mean it’s not just me, though. I own the company with Tom.” _As he’s fond of reminding me, _she thinks.

Ben’s picked up on it, though. “Well, you still got yourself into college, and through it, without his help. Don’t forget that.”

She sighs. “Because you were the one helping me.”

He makes an almost-Richie-like _pfft _noise. “You did the work, Bev. You got yourself there. And you’re the creative one, you’re invaluable. There are a lot of guys with money to invest, there aren’t a lot of people with the talent you have, alright?”

She looks at him and her heart warms. “Why are you so great?”

He blushes again. “I’m really not, I’m just being honest.”

“No, I mean it, Ben,” she says, earnestly. “And you have such passion for your work, I see it when you talk. I love it. I haven’t really felt much of that for what I do in years. I wanted to do a sustainable line, but it was…voted down.” Of course Tom was never going to go for it. Something that would make her feel good and help the environment? Madness.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ben says, genuinely. “Sometimes, it’s hard to remember why you’re doing something, even something you love.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, emphatically. “But I know exactly why.”

He pauses a moment then asks delicately, “How are – things, with him? I’m not trying to pry, it just – sounded bad last night.”

She nods. “You’re not…wrong. I won’t go into the whole thing, when we’re having a nice morning and I don’t really want to think about him, but –“ she pauses, and looks at him. “I’ve left him.”

Ben looks at her sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”

She smiles. “I’m not. It’s long overdue.”

He smiles, a little. “If you ever need any help, you know you can call me. I’d drop whatever I was doing.”

She has to look away from his kind eyes, so full of affection, or she might actually cry. She can already feel her eyes getting hot.

“Bev?” he asks, worried. “Did I –“

She looks back up at him. “No I’m just – I’m so happy to see you again. I missed you,” she says, and this time she takes his hand and squeezes it.

He smiles back at her, a strange kind of smile. Maybe the same as hers – happy and sad and grateful all at the same time. “I missed you too. So much,” he manages.

*

Bev gets back from the bathroom to find Ben outside taking a call. She sees him through the window and smiles, though he doesn’t see her. He’s got a different face on, his serious business face. He doesn’t seem angry though.

She goes out, just to listen, hidden by the doorway. To see what he sounds like, really, in business mode. To her surprise, she doesn’t glean anything. Ben is speaking what sounds like rapid Chinese in a low, steady tone.

She didn’t know he spoke anything other than the high-school Spanish they took. Their school had actually offered a choice between Spanish and German, and she’d thought Spanish would be easier. And more viable if she ever got out of town. She can still speak a bit.

She goes back in, smiling to herself, and sits back down. He comes back in and looks apologetic when he sees her. “Sorry, I just had to take that quickly. Boring business stuff.”

“Not that boring,” she says. “I didn’t know you spoke Chinese?”

He looks surprised. “You heard that?”

“I came to look for you but I didn’t want to disturb. So, since when do you know Chinese?”

He smiles modestly. “It’s Cantonese mostly. I know a bit of Mandarin. Years ago when I was still building up my resume, I worked for an architecture and construction firm in Hong Kong – I learnt it there, mainly, and it helped. A lot of people there speak English, obviously, but day-to-day it made it a lot easier.” He smiles, nostalgically. “It was a good year.”

She smiles, open-mouthed in surprise. “Wow, that’s so _cool, _Ben, I’m jealous! Were you lonely?”

“I was a bit lonely, at first,” he replies, half-smiling. “But I met some amazing people there too.”

“That sounds so fantastic. I’ve never had the guts to live in a foreign city. Always wanted too, though,” she says, trying not to sound too wistful.

He smiles at her, fully. “Never too late to try. Where would you wanna go?”

“Paris, probably. Very good for a fashion designer. Or…Milan,” she muses. “Not likely anytime soon, though.”

“You never know. Could happen,” he says, smiling, eyes crinkling. Why does it seem possible when he says it? Like she could just – let go of everything and just move overseas. Even like…she could have someone with her, maybe, with kinder eyes and a smile that doesn’t twist into something ugly.

She looks back at him. “You make it sound so easy.”

He shrugs. “It might not be. But it’s your choice now. It’s doable.”

She’s almost speechless with affection for him. His quiet respect for her. “Again, _how_ is it you’re single?” she says with a smile. 

He colours, slightly. “Work?” he says, and chuckles, and looks at his coffee. “Guess I’m just…I don’t know, waiting for the right person.”

He looks up at her and smiles, that slight hard-to-label emotion in his eyes again.

“Well, in my experience, that seems like a smart idea,” she replies, smiling back at him.

His eyes definitely look sad now, but he nods.

She doesn’t want to think about all of it, not here. Not today. “I have an idea. Why don’t we get out of here and visit a familiar stomping ground?”

He brightens. “Alright, where are you thinking?”

*

The library is warm inside. It’s much like Bev remembers, and it makes her happy.

Ben looks around with a wistful look.

“Time machine, hey?” she says quietly, nudging him.

He nods, smiling. “I’ll say. I can’t believe it’s barely changed since, what, the late nineties?”

“Sounds like Derry,” she says in the same low tone. “More importantly, how is Mrs Johnson still here? She’s gotta be pushing seventy,” she says, turning her head to his ear so only he can catch it, making him laugh, quickly stifled.

Old Mrs Johnson shoots them a look from her desk, and they have to again stifle their laughter silently.

“She will kick us out, I’ve seen her do it,” Ben says, very quietly, grinning.

Bev grins back. “Aw, but you were always her favourite, Ben. She’d never kick you out."

“I doubt she even remembers me,” he defers.

“Well, let’s go over and see if she does,” Bev says, and regardless of his quiet protests, marches over to the desk.

“Mrs Johnson?” she says to the older woman behind the desk. “Sorry for disturbing you before, we’re just excited to be back,” she says, charmingly.

Mrs Johnson looks caught between wanting to frown and smile.

“You probably don’t remember us –“ she continues.

Mrs Johnson looks at her, curiously. “No, I do,” she says, slowly. “The little Marsh girl?”

Bev nods, with a polite smile she doesn’t feel. She hates having her father’s name. The only reason she kept it was because she had established herself under it – and maybe because she knew taking Tom’s would be worse.

“I remember you hanging around here, now. That hair,” she says, in that older-person way where it might be an insult, or it might not be. “Always with…” she says, and her eyes clock Ben. “But it couldn’t be…” she says, although this seems more affectionate. Or as affectionate as she’s going to get. “You’re not young Ben?”

He smiles a little, awkward. “That’s me. It’s good to see you again, Mrs J.”

She puts her glasses, hanging on a little chain around her neck, closer to her eyes, and Bev has to work very hard not to laugh.

She smiles, warmer than Bev can remember, making her look like a proud auntie. “Well, didn’t you grow up well, young man? Did you put all that reading to good use? What do you do?”

He nods, and she can tell he’s a little embarrassed, but he seems happy too. “Yeah, I did. I started an architecture firm, actually.” He’s never boastful about it, she notices. It still doesn’t make sense, but maybe it does. Because it’s him.

Mrs Johnson looks impressed. “Wow, you _have _done well! Where are you living now?”

They get caught up in conversation and her phone buzzes. Once. Twice. Three times. It rings on vibrate in her pocket.

Ben looks at her, concerned. She smiles back, trying to look calm. “I can take this. I’ll be two seconds.”

He only seems more worried. “You need moral support?”

She smiles genuinely at him despite her own worry. “No, you keep talking. I’ll just be in the other room.”

“Alright,” he says, giving her a last look.

She moves into the other room. There’s a display, _Postcards from Derry. _The library seems to have archived postcards from the early 1900s to now, one or two for each decade. It’s kind of fascinating, seeing what represents the town from decade to decade. Her eye is drawn to one from the 1980s – one featuring an image of the Derry Standpipe. She’d only been beneath it once, and she’d only known later. The postcard is instantly familiar, because she has -

Her phone goes off again. She steels herself, and picks it up. It’s Tom, but she didn’t need to look at the screen to know.

“What do you want, Tom, I can’t talk right now. I only picked up to tell you to stop this, ok?” she says, even-toned and without warmth.

“Are you with _him_?” Tom slurs. She suppresses a shiver, holding her phone away from her ear. It’s remarkable how even from miles away, she can almost feel his hot breath on her neck.

“What?” she asks, sharply. “Actually, I don’t care, it’s none of your business who I’m with.”

He lets out in an indecipherable growl of rage, and she holds the phone away from her face, glaring at it.

She puts her phone back to her ear. “Stop calling, Tom. Stop texting. I don’t want to hear from you, and I will block you if you keep doing it.”

“Beverly, babe, we’ve been through this before. You get upset, you say this is the last time, but we both know you’ll be back,” he says, nastily.

“Are you drunk? Jesus Christ Tom, I know you don’t give a shit but it’s barely afternoon. Or have you just been up all night?” she snaps.

“Admit it, baby,” he sneers. “You fucking need me. You need my _money. _My _house._”

She scoffs. “_Wow_, Tom. You’ve outdone yourself, but I’m so not doing this right now. Goodb – “

Before she can hang up, he catches her. He’s very good at it – he’s had a lot of practice. “And who’s going to understand you like me? All the ways you’re fucked up? The way your daddy _loved yo –_“ he whispers, and they’ve had this exact fight so many times. She’s so fucking tired of it.

“Fuck you,” she interrupts, shaking with anger.

“_This new guy you’re fucking will see how dirty you _– “ he gets out venomously as she hangs up. She almost throws her phone against the wall.

Instead, shaking, she decides to finally block his number. She couldn’t explain why she hasn’t before, because she truly hates him, but before she’d never been quite able to do it. Maybe because she felt like she didn’t really have anyone to turn to if she was left with nothing, and blocking his number has always seemed incredibly final. But she feels stronger here. 

She stares at her phone, now she’s done it. It was so easy. If only it were that easy to block him from her life entirely.

“Bev?” a voice asks behind her.

She spins around, and sees Ben in the opening and feels like some of the tension leaves her body just seeing him.

He looks worried when he sees her face, though. “Oh no, is everything – are you ok, Bev?” he says, gentle and quiet, walking up to her. “I didn’t mean to –“ he starts, awkwardly.

She shakes her head. “It’s alright,” she says, and strangely, she finds herself smiling a little. Maybe it is.

He smiles a little, brown eyes deep, kind and a little more weathered than she remembers. She likes it.

“Do you wanna go for a drive?” he asks.

She smiles at him, more. “Lead the way.”

*

The lake at the Barrens is just as beautiful as she remembers. She hasn’t been out here since she arrived, but she’s been wanting to. It’s one of the few places in town that she has solely positive memories.

They sit with their legs hanging over the edge, looking out at the water.

It’s cool, definitely too cold to swim. Maybe too high to jump now. It didn’t used to be. Bev feels like she used to be fearless – like the worst had already happened, so she had nothing left that she feared. But maybe she’d had a bit of a deathwish, too.

They talk, and talk. Ben looks good like this, relaxed, leaning back on his arms with his overshirt sleeves rolled up. She catches herself staring at the muscles in his arms moving and looks away quickly. He doesn’t seem to have noticed. For a long time, they sit there just talking, and she feels herself unwinding from the shittiness of the phone call.

She smiles, looking at him. “Ok, I don’t want to be creepy and weird and maybe a bit patronising,” she starts.

“Ok…” Ben laughs.

She chuckles. “But can I just say, I’m so proud of what you’ve achieved. Not just your business, but yourself. Not that – not that you’d be anything less than the amazing person I’ve known if you never did all…_that…_but I’m sure it wasn’t easy, and I’m proud of you.”

As expected, he starts to blush and looks down. “Uh, thanks, yeah. What’s a few,” he says, and chuckles into his next words, “ – ok, thousand pushups?”

She laughs. “Well, was it worth it?”

He looks at her with a funny smile. “I guess, yeah. Would’ve helped me out a lot more when I was here, I think.”

She pushes him lightly. “Don’t sell yourself short. You were always cute, you just have abs now.”

His eyes widen. He opens his mouth slightly, then closes it.

“Cute like, kid cute, right?” he says, slowly.

She smiles wider. “No, stop doing that. _Cute_-cute. And not just like – it was your whole _thing. _Cute like you didn’t care about being cool, and it made you so much better. Cute like the way you used to sing along to _New Kids_ when it was just us,” she says. He blushes, smiling. “Cute like you used to write all those poems…” She trails off, remembering something.

He’s looking at her softly, and he doesn’t look away. She looks at him for a long moment. Then she reaches into her bag to find her wallet.

She finds it – the thing she’s kept for a very long time, a reminder – and pulls it out. It’s old but still intact, just a little creased around the picture of the Derry Standpipe. She looks down at it and feels like she’s holding a piece of her younger self.

“Someone – a secret admirer – gave this to me, at a time I didn’t feel very…admirable. Or lovable, really,” she says, quietly, and takes a breath. “I thought it was Bill for a long time. It fit – he did love me, he was a writer, I started hanging out with him around the time I got it. We’d even had those kind of little kid-crushes on each other, you know?”

“Right,” Ben says, voice sticking.

She looks at him. His eyes are sad, even as he smiles at her.

“But I mentioned a phrase from it, once, and he didn’t know it. He didn’t write poems, is the thing. But we were together and I was happy, so I didn’t think too hard about it. And then I kept it, for so long I almost forgot I had it – I took it with me when I left, and it became like this reminder, that I had been worthy of – love, I guess, when I hadn’t thought I was. I hid it. I treasured it. But I never wanted to know who wrote it. I think I was afraid, subconsciously, if I looked too closely I’d figure it out. And it’d ruin things.”

He looks caught off-guard. He is still looking at her. In a careful tone he says, “So you never…”

“No,” she says, gently, not breaking eye contact with him. “But I saw something today at the library. A display of old postcards. I saw one that was very familiar. And I thought, who do I know that actually liked me – a narrow group at the time, if you’ll remember – and spent a lot of time in the library, and wrote poetry?”

He opens his mouth, and closes it again. “Could be a lot of –“ he says weakly.

She gives him a gently chiding look. “Not a lot of people with all that, who’d pass over a picture of this beautiful view we’re looking at right now for a picture of a building they thought was cool. And only one I know who made a diorama of it. The first time we met.”

He sighs, looking down. “God, that’s…”He looks up at her, pink-cheeked, but smiling. His eyes are shining. “I can’t…believe you kept it. All this time. Twenty-seven years.”

She laughs, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah, I guess that’s a bit weird. I’m not – I’m not bringing this up to freak you out, I just –“

She stops because Ben’s pulling out his wallet. He opens it, pulling up a folded sheet of paper. It’s old, weathered.

“This is weird, too, but I’m hoping you’ll get it now,” Ben says, in a husky voice. She feels like her heart is never going to stop beating this fast.

He looks at her, hesitates, then passes her the paper. She unfolds it. It’s the yearbook page she signed for him, the first day they met. Last day of school, 1989. There are no other signatures on it.

“You kept this?” she says, feeling a swell of intense emotion. Her memories are reworking, adding this new information to every interaction they had after. She had thought _maybe, _but she had never let herself think it honestly because she didn’t want to be _that girl. _The girl that sews jealousy and anger and hurt in the group. And she had loved Bill, she wasn’t looking elsewhere. 

Ben sighs again, smiling ruefully. “Well, I was new and lonely. A girl, with her own reasons to be cruel, was kind to me. Really the first person to be, so I was –“ his voice cracks. “I was a goner, obviously. And then, I also kept this page as a reminder. And we fell out of touch, but I didn’t forget. I couldn’t.”

She looks at him, so kind and so beautiful – not just his face, but his heart, his vulnerability and affection shining out of him – and it’s like something slotting into place. Like lightning striking metal, electrifying her mind. He looks at her with so much love, and now that she’s allowing herself to admit it, she thinks she must have been blind or stupid before. It’s been so long since anyone’s looked at her like that.

She can’t help it. She leans forward and kisses him. He hesitates for a moment, then responds, bringing a hand up to cup the side of her face in the gentlest way.

And it’s so good, and she realises she’s crying because it’s been so long since someone has been gentle with her.

And then an insidious voice creeps into her brain. _The way your daddy loved you. He’ll see how dirty you really are. Twenty seven years. No one understands you like I do. You’re nothing. An insignificant, dishonest little slut, you know that?_

A page of a yearbook, still clutched in one of her hands. _Twenty-seven years. _

_January embers. _An old, battered postcard. A different voice. _Why would you need to hide this in your underwear drawer Bevvie? Where are you going with those boys Bevvie? Are you doing womanly things in the woods with those boys Bevvie? Can you open the door for me Bevvie? You look just like your mother. Are you still my little girl, Bevvie? Shh, Bevvie –_

She pulls back like she’s received a huge electric shock.

Ben looks surprised, glazed eyes soon sharpened with worry. “I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “Was that too much?” He looks confused. “Did I hurt you?” he asks, near-horrified.

She shakes her head, unable to speak for a moment. “I can’t do this,” she says, already beginning to spiral.

“Oh,” Ben says, softly. He just looks at her, confused. And worse, he’s still worried for her more than himself.

“I can’t be the person you want, Ben. You’re _so good,_” she says, and her voice breaks. He reaches out for her, automatically, and she dodges back. She sees the hurt register on his face and feels a sick swoop of guilt. “And you have this _idea _of me that you’ve held onto, I think, and I’m not her. I couldn’t bear to disappoint you, Ben. You don’t want _me, _ok?”

She gets to her feet and he follows suit.

“But I do,” Ben says, stung. “Bev, I know you. I’ve known you since I was thirteen.”

She can barely stand to look at him, but she looks back, vision blurring. “You don’t know me now. You wouldn’t – “ she breaks off.

“Bev, I –“ he says, strained. “You know I –“

She starts to walk away from him. He follows.

“Where are you going?” he asks, helplessly. “I drove us here.”

“I don’t know!” she retorts. “I’ll walk home if I have to.”

“Bev, please wait –“ he says, coming up next to her. His eyes are shining with hurt and confusion, and she wants to say _you think this hurts now, but imagine what I’d do to you if we were together. _“I – I love you,” he says, voice coming out strained and hurt. It hits her like a bullet to the chest, a painful, unfair shot. “I’ve loved you for so long, and I didn’t think you felt the same, so I never…” he trails off. “But then the last few days, and you…” She can tell he wants to reach out to her, is holding himself back. “I don’t…understand what you’re saying. After everything we went through? After everything we…shared? You think I don’t know you?”

“I think you’ve loved an idealised version of me for too long, Ben. Believe me, this is for the best, I swear. You will find someone great, once you let go of me. You deserve it so much,” A sob escapes her. “I have to – go –“

“Where are you – Bev!“ he begins. She doesn’t reply because her fight or flight response has kicked in, and she’s running, like a teenager again. Maybe she never really grew up. Maybe that’s her problem.

She can’t stop seeing his heartbroken expression, and imagines him standing in her wake, watching her get farther and farther away. She’s gotten to the road when her phone rings, and she jumps.

It’s just Mike though.

She tries to pull it together.

“Hey, Bev,” Mike says. He doesn’t sound happy. 

“Hey Mike,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “What’s wrong?”

“Something bad’s going on here. Have you got any idea why Richie’s drunk in the middle of the day?” Mike asks, sounding very concerned.

“Drunk?” she asks, as confused as he is.

“He’s having a fight with Stan, and it sounds bad. I can’t hear everything, but I heard enough,” Mike says, anxiously. “I don’t know why he’s doing it, but it’s not good for Stan,” he says, and there’s a note of protective anger in his tone. He pauses. “The front door just slammed. I think Richie’s gone off. Maybe back to the guest house? Could you try and talk to him?”

She feels righteous anger flaring in her stomach, maybe as a way to avoid dealing with what she’s just done. “Oh yeah. I’ll find him alright. We’ve got words to have.”

Mike pauses again. “Are you ok? You sound –“

“I’m fine,” she says automatically. “I gotta go, though. I’ll find Richie.”

“Ok,” Mike says, sounding even more concerned. She hangs up. Time to walk back to the guest house then, she supposes.

***

Richie is woken way earlier than he wants to be by a banging on the door. He’d gotten back to the room, head pounding, and passed out on the bed. It was a small mercy not to be conscious, but as he checks the time on his phone, he sees that he barely slept at all before some psycho started banging on the door.

He supposes it’s Eddie. Or Stan. Or Mike. A shorter list might be one of the people he hasn’t pissed off today.

“Richie, open the door!” comes, somewhat surprisingly, Bev’s voice.

He groans. “Go away!” he yells from the bed.

“Open the _fucking _door, Richie!” she yells. She sounds pissed.

He wonders if anyone’s with her. He doesn’t feel like seeing anyone right now.

“No! Can’t I get some fuckin’ privacy?” he calls back.

“Richie I swear to God, I will find a way to kick your door down –“ she says.

He scoffs. “Keep trying!”

“Or, I’ll tell everyone what really happened on the tenth grade field trip, when you –“ she calls through the door, and remembering, he sprints to the door and unlocks it, glaring out at her.

“Get in, get in,” he says, irritably.

She glares back at him. He doesn’t remember destroying their friendship today, so it’s probably second-hand.

“You said you’d take that secret with you to _the grave,_” Richie says to her, breaking the silence.

“I wasn’t going to do it, I just needed you to open your damn door,” she says, frowning at him like this is obvious.

“I have had many drinks and very little sleep, I’m not in the mood for this shit,” Richie says, frowning back, narrowing his eyes.

She looks unmoved. “Whose fault is that?”

“What do you want?” he says, exhaustedly.

“To know _what the fuck, _man?” she says vehemently, and he realises she’s upset, too. Her eyes look swollen and red-rimmed, and he wonders if she’d cry that much over him having fights with the others.

“What?” he says, even though he knows what she means.

“Why the fuck are you getting drunk and yelling at the person we’re here to support?” she says, and her eyes are fiery, but she also seems at a loss.

“Ok, Stan’s not innocent – “ he starts, but her eyes flash angrily.

“I don’t care, Rich! We’re supposed to be reminding him he has friends who _love him_, not friends who’ll make him feel – fucking, worse!” she explodes.

She’s always had this strange, almost witchcraft-esque ability (he wouldn’t put it past her) to shame him when no one else is able to stop him. Maybe because they’re the same, and she knows the exact feeling that leads to burning everything down. He can’t yell back at her because of it, he can’t even speak.

She stands in front of him, shaking with anger, eyes searching his face.

“What’s going on with you?” she asks, with something that sounds like concern laced with anger.

“Nothing,” he gets out, frowning. “I’m fine.”

She scoffs. “You seem fine. Well come on then, if you’re fighting with all of us because you’re obviously _fine_, go ahead, it’s my turn. Say what you’re dying to say.”

“What?” he says, much less facetiously than before.

She seems serious. “I know you’ve got some thoughts on me. I mean it, take your best shot at me, Richie. Let’s get this out of your system,” she says, eyes blazing, goading him on.

He doesn’t say anything. He wasn’t expecting _this_.

“I’ll get you started,” she says, savagely. “I’m so fucked up that I’m way too good to awful men, and I’m a total bitch to nice ones, ones who don’t deserve it at all, because I’m so – I’m _damaged fucking goods_ –“ she says, and dissolves into sobs.

Any anger he has about her barging into his room while he has a headache evaporates instantly, and he just feels the overwhelming need to comfort her, so he pulls her into a hug. She doesn’t protest.

“Hey, hey,” he says, softly, as she cries into his chest.

He waits till she’s finished, till her tears have slowed and then stopped, before he asks. “I _knew_ something else was up, the moment I saw you,” he says, sadly. “What happened?”

She pulls back to look up at him, her arms still staying loosely laced around his waist. He doesn’t remove his from her either. It kills him that she looks exactly how he feels, her eyes full of helpless remorse. “I fucked up, too. I wasn’t – I was trying to –“ she says, and tears up again. She blinks, and continues. “I came here to yell at you about Stan, and I stand by that.”

Richie half-smiles.

“But, I wanna say…” she says, and sighs. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I understand. I totally freaked out on poor Ben before and his face…oh my God, how am I ever going to –“ she says, a sob cutting her off.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” he tries. He’s not great at comforting people, but he knows her. He’s done this before. “You know Ben, he thinks you’re amazing, he thinks the sun shines out of your –“

“_Richie -” _Bev cuts him off.

“I was going to say pores, but ok,” he lies. Bev doesn’t look convinced. “Unless you somehow murdered his mother in the last few hours, I think he’ll forgive you. You know how he feels about you.” Actually, maybe she doesn’t, but still she knows he cares about her a great deal.

She just looks sadder, which he hadn’t meant to do. “I do know. He loves me. _Loves me_, loves me.”

“You finally noticed?” is his knee-jerk reaction. Bev glares at him. “Sorry, sorry –“ and then it hits him what she’s actually said. “Wait, he _told _you? When?”

She nods, looking pained. “After I…kissed him…” she says slowly, guiltily.

“You kissed?” he says, temporarily forgetting they’re both miserable. This doesn’t last, seeing her face. “Was it..bad?” Richie says, and she narrows her eyes at him. “Ok, ok, so you feel bad because you don’t…have…feelings for him?”

“No!” she says, miserably. “I do. I really – I do,” she says, and takes a deep, wobbly breath. “It’s just – complicated. Being back here.”

“That’s good though, right?” he says, and she gives him a baleful look. “Well, yeah, there is your marriage, but I’m getting the vibe that your husband is a _bit_ of a shithead, so once you deal with that what’s the problem?”

Bev expels a breath, too weak to really be called a laugh, but something like it. “That’s not the problem. I would be happy if I never saw Tom again because he truly is, to put it mildly, a shithead.”

He feels himself tense a bit, thinking about how long she must have stayed with someone like that. He’s never been one for getting into physical fights, but he’s never been one for healthy choices either so if he ever meets this Tom guy he’s getting knocked the fuck out if it’s the last thing Richie does. And, depending on how bulky Tom is, it might just be.

“It’s over,” she says, matter-of-fact, the one thing that doesn’t make her well up. “But I – I can’t be with Ben.”

He looks at her, confused. “Is this a…need some time off from men, magazine-life-advice deal? Because I guess, but –“

She groans. “No, it’s – although honestly, maybe that’s what I should do – it’s that I’m not fit – “

She breaks off, and looks down, pulling away from him entirely. She sits down on the edge of his bed.

“What is it?” he asks, carefully.

“He’s too –“ she says, choked, and looks at him. “He’s too fucking good for me, Rich! I am a _mess, _and I’m barely ready to be _anyone’s_ girlfriend, let alone – and I don’t even…I don’t even know what I want right now, other than to meet with my lawyer the moment I get back to the city.”

He nods. “I’m sorry – it’s not like it would be easy, I know.” He walks over to sit next to her. “I just…” he says, and trails off. He’s really fucking up this comforting thing, but he’s fucking _trying_. “How can you think he’s too good for you? That’s – so not fucking true…If you’re damaged goods, I’m damaged goods. Fuck, all of us are, Bev,” he says putting an arm around her. She leans into it, resting her head on his shoulder. “Which includes him, you know?”

She sighs. He feels the movement of it. “It’s not the same,” she says, and pauses for a while. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He’s not in love with me. He’s in love with this – idea of me that is better than me, you know?”

“You told him that?” Richie asks.

“Yep,” Bev says heavily.

“Bev –“ he starts. “You know that’s crazy? It’s not like he doesn’t know you. I know you, and I fucking – love you too, albeit not _quite _in the same way –“ he says, and she half-chuckles. “And I know your flaws, your bad moods, your…stuff. Do you think I don’t know you?”

She looks up at him, sadly. “I – no, of course you do. It’s not the same as carrying a torch for someone for twenty-seven years, though. How are you supposed to…live up to that?” she says, and looks sadly at him. “Maybe you already know about that, though?”

“Ah,” he says, with some weight. “That.” She gives him a moment. “I think I completely fucking… destroyed my friendship with Eddie today,” he says slowly, and then breaks down.

“Oh, Rich,” she says, soft, heartbroken, and slips her arm around him. “What did you do?”

He huffs a near-laugh, taking off his glasses to wipe his eyes, and then replacing them. “The funny thing is, it wasn’t my fault. Well, not at first,” he amends.

She looks up at him sympathetically, giving him time to continue.

He sighs. “It was so _stupid. _I mean, I know you’re probably thinking I said one too many asshole things to him and he snapped, but it wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like?” she asks gently.

He looks around, and then down at the ground. “You remember Heather, my old girlfriend?”

Bev smiles. “Yeah, she was the best one. Very cute.”

Richie almost grins at this. “Well maybe you should’ve dated her then, because Eddie and I bumped into her and her wife today.”

Bev makes an excited noise. “Aw! That’s so – Good for her. I’m glad she’s happy. I assume she’s not still living here, though?”

“No, she’s out in San Francisco,” he says, and smiles a little.

“Sounds nice,” Bev says. “So how did that become…”

He sighs again. “We were talking about their marriage, and Eddie came back from the pharmacy, and she thought we were married.”

Bev sucks in a breath. “Awkward, maybe, but not the end of the world, right?”

Richie chuckles, a little too bitterly. “You’d think so. If someone assumed _we_ were married, you’d be chill about it. Mike would be chill. Even Stan, someone with very little chill, would be fucking chill about it.”

“Oh no,” Bev says, apprehensive.

“Oh yes, Beverly,” Richie says, darkly. “No of course, Edward Kaspbrak, least chill person on Planet fucking Earth couldn’t just deny it. He had to say it would be _ridiculous _because he’s married to _Myra _who is a _fucking woman just in case we weren’t all fucking aware in this group of homos that he’s fucking not_ –“ he breaks off, and finds he’s crying again, this time maybe from the anger and the hurt. She keeps her arm around him, and it’s comforting.

There’s a silence, but not an uncomfortable one, as he realises what he’s said. It doesn’t feel so bad, actually. It’s like she was waiting for him to comment, giving him the space. “Also, I’m gay,” he says, finding a thread of humour in his voice, hoarse and weak from yelling and crying for the last few hours. “I don’t know if I ever, like, officially told you, but…”

She removes her hand from his waist so she can take one of his hands. She pauses, smiling at him. “I kind of…knew. But thanks for telling me.”

He laughs. “God, you and Stan. And I thought I was so subtle.”

She laughs. “Subtle? You?”

He laughs again. “Oof, fucking hell, the hits keep coming. Well, at the very least, you accidentally now have a – _nother_? Gay best friend,” he laughs, a bit rueful. “I warn you, I know nothing about fashion.”

“Good thing I do, because that much is obvious,” Bev cracks, and grins at Richie’s expression. She squeezes his hand again. “Back atcha though, with the gay bestie thing. Well, bisexual.”

He says the first thing that comes to mind. “You know about Stan?” 

She laughs, incredulous. “No, you dork, me. Although I have known about Stan since college.”

He does a double take. “I find out this weekend and you’ve known since the damn _nineties_?”

She laughs again, shrugging. “It was a post-acid bonding experience! Are you really jealous?”

He looks at her, and makes an exploding motion with his hand next to his head. “You guys took – ”

She gives him a look.

“Ok, I’m getting off topic. I have _so many questions though –“ _he says, then stops himself. “Ok, but thanks for telling me, anyway.”

She smiles. “No problem, Rich.” She pauses. “You and Eddie have had bad fights before, they’ve always worked out. Why is this one different?”

He waits a moment, and his smile fades. “I basically said the worst things I could think of, Bev.” He hangs his head. “I said he was like his mom. That he was obsessed with her.”

Bev sucks a breath in. “Low blow, Rich. Even for you.”

“I _know_,” he groans. “And then I kind of told him I was gay and basically told him how I’ve been feeling since we were kids, stormed off, got drunk, and said some really terrible things to Stan. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mike’s angry with me, either. I kind of –“

He hesitates. Bev looks at him seriously. “What did you do?”

He looks back at her. “Do you know…about –“

“Them?” she asks, meaningfully. He nods.

She looks surprised. “How the hell do _you_ know? Did you see –“

He feels a swoop of guilt, thinking of the letter. “No, I – I did a bad thing. Another one. Surprise.”

Her face falls. “Oh, Rich. What did you do?”

“I found a letter between them, from college. Stan never posted it, and it must have gotten mixed up in his old boxes. I kind of – read it…” he says, guiltily.

“No,” she gasps, horrified. “C’mon man!”

“It gets worse,” he admits, dully. “I told him about it – I fucking…_mocked_ him about it. _Fuck,_ he’s never going to talk to me again, I was so –“ he says, and breaks down again.

“Oh, hon,” Bev says, sadly, putting her arm around him.

“I’m not fucking, trying to get out of it either, Bev,” he says, sniffling. “I was the world’s biggest asshole. He’d be right in never speaking to me again, honestly, I fucked up so –“ he dissolves into sobs again. He can’t remember the last time he cried so much – the ending of _My Girl, _maybe?

“Why am I such a –“ he starts, angrily. “Why can’t I seem to – I look at you guys, and you seem to know what the fuck you’re doing, and I feel like I’m still this idiot teenager who’s just gotten wrinklier, still just lashing out like a scared kid.”

“Babe,” Bev says, looking at him. “None of us have it together. We’re all pretending, with varying degrees of success.”

He blinks, looks away. “I can’t help feeling like I’m – fucking, cursed, or something? Like, I’ve always been? And that’s why I can’t seem to – grow up, and have any kind of –“

Bev grabs his face in her hands, firmly. Her hands are soft, save for a callus or two, the kind you get from working with your hands, crafting dresses maybe. She pulls his face down so it’s almost level with hers. He can barely see her, through his blurry vision, and he blinks away tears and rubs his eyes under his glasses with his thumb and forefinger.

“Honey,” she says, voice quiet but pulsing with barely restrained emotion. “I know that fear. But you have to know – you’re _so _beautiful, exactly who you are. You’re _so _loved. And you deserve to have love, all kinds, one that’s just yours, even when you act like an asshole.”

_“Fuck,_” he says, heavily. He’s tearing up again, but he grins at her, weakly. “Back atcha, bestie.”

She rests her forehead against his, and laughs quietly. He feels it, feels connected to her. If this was someone else, a guy maybe, this close, he might kiss them. But it’s her. They’ve done this since they were kids.

“You’re not an asshole, even though you want everyone to think you are,” she whispers. “Because, like me, you feel _so much_. And it scares you, thinking people will see.”

He lets out a shaky breath, almost-laughing, not quite. “You know I fucking love you, Marsh?” his voice is a reedy creak, barely more than a whisper.

He senses her smile more than sees it. “Yep. I fucking love you too, Tozier, although that should be obvious,” she whispers back.

She rests her forehead against his for a moment, then pulls back to lean her head against his shoulder.

“We’re all a mess, I think, Rich. It’s not just you,” she says, softly, tired.

“That’s comforting,” he snorts.

“You know what you’ve gotta do now, right?” she asks.

He groans. “But it’s _hard. _And they hate me now.”

“Well, all the more reason to apologise. I’d take Stan first, if you can’t handle talking to Eddie yet,” she says, reasonably.

“Bev, Stan pretty much said he never wanted to see me again.”

“Richie,” she says. “You’ve gotta at least try.”

“I know,” he sighs. “I’m – afraid he means it.”

She slips her hand into his.

“He’s said that to you before. What do you have to lose?” she says. She has a point.

“Nothing much, I guess,” he replies, but he feels better about it, somehow. She didn’t let him burn them down as well. She took the matches away, and he’s never been more grateful for her.

“Richie?” she says, quietly.

“Yeah?” he replies.

“Brush your teeth before you go and talk to anyone else. I think I’ve gotten a contact high just off the whisky-fumes on your breath,” she says with quiet humour, chucking his shoulder with his.

He laughs, quietly. “Noted. Brutal but honest, that’s the way I like you.”

Bev chuckles, and it turns into a yawn. “God, I’m exhausted. I barely got any sleep last night.”

He lets her to take a nap on his bed, managing to produce a spare blanket, like some kind of miracle. He pulls it over her, then goes and brushes his teeth (and even uses mouthwash). He showers and dresses in the bathroom, and then decides it’s time to go out.

***

Ben spent a long while at the cliffside, frozen.

Generally he’s a fast thinker, he’s always got several things on the go. Not in that moment though. In that moment he was stuck. Go after her and make sure she was ok getting back, even after she’d made it pretty clear she didn’t want to see him? Or give her space, let her go? She clearly didn’t need another man trying to impose what he wanted on her, trying to force her to talk to him while she was upset.

He had sat at the cliffside, numb, and tried to figure out what had gone wrong.

It’d been too much. He’d been too much.

He shouldn’t have –

Her _face. _The way she _looked at him. _

He’d done something wrong, something he didn’t realise.

No matter how long he sat and thought about it, he couldn’t arrive at any other conclusion. He’d done something wrong and didn’t know what. Loved her in the wrong way, maybe. Loved an idea of her. He hadn’t been trying to do that, he’d just loved her. Maybe it didn’t matter either way.

Not able to puzzle it out any longer, and not wanting to sit there a second longer, he’d gotten up and walked back to the car.

She wasn’t there, obviously.

He’d looked for her along the road, driving along, but he knew she was long gone. How far away, he didn’t know. He hoped she’d only gone back to the guest house, or Stan’s maybe – but her _face _when she’d left. She couldn’t even look at him. Maybe she’d really gone. Back to New York.

The thought gripped him with a kind of terror. She’d said she wasn’t going back to him, but that had been before everything. He hoped against hope that she hadn’t.

Which means he’s striding up the front steps of the guest house, about to open the door and do ... something, he hasn’t figured out what yet, but maybe if she hasn’t already left he can talk to her, he can apologise, he can figure out what’s going on, when the door opens in front of him.

It’s Richie, looking deeply anxious, and then surprised when he looks at Ben. “Ben…” he says, voice strange. If Ben didn’t know better he’d think Richie was concerned, but Richie’s rarely so obviously sincere.

“Have you seen Bev, Richie?” he asks, straight away. He knows he sounds kind of desperate, but right now he doesn’t care.

Richie’s face works, and he sighs. He moves out of the doorway, and closes the door. Ben watches him doing it, almost trying to glance behind him. Like she’s going to be hiding just out of sight. Pathetic.

Ben’s gaze flicks back to Richie. He looks awkward, but determined.

“I really need to know if you’ve seen her, Rich, it’s important – “ he starts. “She kind of – took off…”

“Ben, man, it’s ok. She’s back. I just talked to her,” he says, and Ben breathes a sigh of relief. It’s short-lived, though. He doesn’t recognise this tone on Richie. He’s actually being… _careful_. Of his _feelings. _He loves Richie anyway, but sensitivity has never been his strong suit. It’s kind of unsettling, because it means it _must _be bad news.

“Well, that’s good,” he says, deflating.

They stand in awkward silence for a moment. Richie actually looks how he feels, now he can see him closer. In recent memory, Richie’s always looked a bit a rumpled, but he’s also always been grinning. Right now he looks tired, and regretful, something a bit devastated behind his eyes. He’s not smiling.

“Did she say anything to you about it?” he throws out, suddenly. Definitely desperate, but desperate times and all.

Richie looks more uncomfortable. “Well I, I mean,” he hedges. “About?”

Ben looks at him, feeling like he may as well just say it. He’d be surprised if Richie were going to judge, but then again.

“Rich, I – “ he starts, “I think I fucked up.”

“Join the club,” Richie mutters. He softens, looking at Ben. “How…so?”

He almost sounds surprised.

Ben looks at him, unsure of what to say, how to even explain. “I…we kissed,” he says, still sort of looking for the right words. “And then…I don’t know?” he says, finding that he can’t really explain it. He looks down. “I must have…hurt her, somehow. I mean, I know she’s married and I never intended to do anything, but things seem…bad, between them, I just –“ He looks back up at Richie, hating himself for putting Richie in this position, but needing to know. “I know you probably can’t say, but did she…tell you what I did, what upset her?” He pauses. “Do you think she’d let me talk to her?”

Richie looks at him, expression almost unreadable. Something like sympathy, or guilt even.

He sighs. “Ok, here’s what I think we should do. Bev’s taking a nap, and I think she needs some time away from us anyway, so I think we should go find a bar and we can talk about this shit, alright?”

Ben considers it, hesitantly. “I don’t know, I don’t really –“

Richie cuts back in. “We don’t even have to drink. Well, you probably should have one, you look like you could use it. I won’t. Well, I might have _one _beer, probably best I cut back for a while,” he says, almost sounding anxious.

Ben looks at him, and remembers something. “Weren’t you going somewhere?”

“It can wait,” Richie says, and there’s definitely something avoidant and anxious in his tone. He looks at Ben and half-smiles. “What do you say? Richie and Ben, drinking together like old times?”

“Oh God,” Ben says, nervously.

Richie grins a little more. “Or less old times and more, one beer and done, don’t think about it let’s just go, what do you say Ben?” he ploughs on confidently, keeping eye contact and grinning.

Ben sighs, and almost smiles. He attempts a weak approximation of it anyway. “Alright, but on one condition?”

“Anything, Benjamin, name it,” Richie agrees, seemingly more pumped up to go out than he had been a moment ago. Maybe because he’s not going to do what he’d been determined to do earlier.

“Can we get the hell out of here? Just like, for a few hours. This place is getting to me,” he says, and trusts Richie to know he doesn’t just mean the guest house.

Richie looks back at him, and grins like this is a genius plan. “I’ve never wanted to do anything more, Benny-boy, let’s do it!” he says, throwing a jovial arm around him and steering them down the front steps.

Ben half-smiles, despite the fact no one else calls him Benny, or has even tried for the last twenty years.

He wonders what happened to the Richie-mood from this morning, wonders if this is part of it or whether it burnt itself out on its own.

He hopes for the latter.

*

Richie knows it’s probably a bad idea to have gone to another bar, but what was he supposed to do? He’s an emotionally stunted adult man, and like the best of them, he doesn’t know many other ways of comforting a friend without at least _one _drink in his hand.

And Ben seems pretty goddamn devastated, even though he’s keeping it together. Richie doesn’t think it’s worse than his situation, but maybe being in that position _would_ be worse. Eddie’s insensitive, sure, and it hurt like a motherfucker to be reminded that they’ll never be Bev and Ben, Eddie made that _pretty fucking clear_; but maybe it’d be worse to get what you want, what you’ve wanted for _so long_, and then have it ripped away from you?

Thoughts like this are why he’s got a beer. He can’t have this sort of conversation stone-cold sober.

It’s nice to be out of Derry, if only for a while. Driving away felt like stepping out of his problems, their problems, leaving them in the dust as they drove away.

They drove for a while, just following signs for towns in the distance, got on the highway for a bit. And they’ve found themselves a dive-ish bar in Hampden, advertising live music later. Richie ordered them drinks – he’s not going to get plastered off one beer – and now they’re drinking in companionable near-silence.

“So,” Richie says, after a while. “You know how I fuckin’ hate sincerity.”

Ben snorts into his drink, looking miserable.

Richie smirks a little. “But since I did kind of drag you out here – well, you drove us here, but still –“ he pauses, putting a finger out, listening out. “Is this _INXS_?” he says, grinning happily. “_Fuck, _I haven’t heard this song in forever, man. It’s so good.”

Ben looks at him quizzically. “Is it? I don’t really –“

Richie looks back at him in horror. “INXS? You don’t know _INXS?_” he says incredulously, bobbing his head to the baseline. “Honestly, Ben.”

Ben shrugs, looking no less doleful. “I don’t know why you’re surprised.”

“No, you were probably still listening to New Kids at the time,” Richie says, only meaning to gently rib him. Ben smiles wistfully, and then it fades.

Richie feels guilty. “You know the first time I heard this?” he says quickly. “Fifth grade, I think? I was obsessed with it.”

Ben looks interested at least, looking up at him. 

_I’ve got to let you know, you’re one of my kind. _Richie nods his head to it.

“My mom hated it. She’s never been much of a rock fan, though. But I kept singing it and annoying the hell out of everyone, and Eddie – tiny, tiny eleven-year-old Eddie, if you can imagine him when you first met him but _even smaller – _“ he says, and Ben almost smiles. A small quirk of his lips.

“And he finally snaps and tells me to _shut the fuck up Jesus Christ Richie! _Like, he’s gotten mad at me before, but I think this is one of the earliest times I can remember him telling me to shut the fuck up, and I just…” he says, trailing off and feeling his grin slipping completely.

He takes a sip of his beer, feeling his heart actually aching.

“This is starting to feel very familiar, huh, Rich?” Ben says ruefully, after a moment.

“I wasn’t going to…but, fuckin’ right?” Richie says, letting out a heavy breath.

Ben nods, contemplating his G&T. He sighs, too. “She thinks…she thinks I’m in love with an _idea_ of her. Not her. Which…” he starts, slowly. “I don’t know how else to feel about her…but maybe she’s right. Maybe I don’t really know her anymore…” He trails off, and then looks at Richie, a little wildly. “I never needed her to want me back, I can cope with her not wanting to be with me…but I was never trying to idealise her, you know? _Or _even – _feel like - _There were times when we were growing up – I would have given _anything _not to feel that way. To turn it off. I _wanted _not to like her so much. I just couldn’t help it.”

Richie takes a swig. He’s definitely not drunk enough for this. And worse, his guilt is doing overtime right now and keeping his more irresponsible impulses in check, so he’s actively not ordering anything else, especially spirits. Better late than never, maybe.

“I remember,” he says, darkly. “Been there.”

“I remember,” Ben echoes.

_The carpet is soft against Richie’s back. He’s pulled pillows off his bed to lay his head on, drifting off listening to music._

_He takes a drag on the joint, smiles vaguely up at the ceiling. _

_He passes it over to Ben, who takes it. Ben barely ever smokes, but maybe it’s different when it’s just the two of them. He looks chilled out. He’s getting better at smoking too, now they’ve done it a few times. Barely coughs. _

_They’re lying on the floor of Richie’s room, listening to a mixtape. His parents are more lenient than most - they don’t mind if he smokes in his room, as long as he cracks a window. As long as he doesn’t set anything on fire or destroy the fridge. He figures they have their more-than-occasional-but-hardly-scary-drinking and he has weed._

_The mixtape is one of his sad ones, one of the nakedly lonely or otherwise bleak soft-rock songs that he’s afraid to play around people normally. Can’t have people knowing you relate in any way. _

_He doesn’t even play it when they all hang out together, even though he knows they wouldn’t really make fun of him. It’s not group music. _

_Ian Curtis mournfully intones that _love, love will tear us apart, again_, on the boombox. _

_Eddie’s been too fucking good to hang out with his best friend lately, but that’s fine by Richie. He can have other best friends. That’s the beauty of having more than one – you get different things from different people. Lately he’s been hanging out a fair bit with Ben. Ben’s one of his only other single friends, as well. Sure Mike is, too, since that girl he was dating last year moved away, but it seems more like he’s too busy to date, what with farm work and school and his few diner shifts. Whatever time he has left goes to hanging out with everyone. _

_He can’t explain it, but Mike is different to the two of them. Mike’s not listening to sad alt-rock mixtapes and getting high. He’s not sad. He’s just busy. _

_They’re not getting high all the time, either. It’s senior year, he knows how important it is that he studies and keeps his GPA up so he can get the hell out of dodge, but it’s a long weekend and his parents are out of town today. Everyone else is being boring and hanging out with their dumb girlfriends, and Mike is working of course, so it’s just them. Well, he amends, Bev isn’t one of the dumb girlfriends, but she’s still busy being Bill’s girlfriend. So they’re both still being boring. _

_He likes the slow beginning of the song that’s just started, likes how there are vaguely mechanical sounds in the background. _

_“Mmm, yeah,” he mumbles. “ ’s already in me.”_

_There’s something about it that really gets him, like the singer is begging to be adored. By someone. By anyone. It’s almost pathetic, except he doesn’t think it is. The singer is defiant about it. _

_Ben looks at him with distant, glassy eyes, after a moment, stunned. “What is this one?”_

_The music crashes in, _I wanna I wanna I wanna I gotta be adored.

_He scrabbles around beside him for the cassette case and swaps it with Ben for the joint. _

_“The Stone Roses - I Wanna Be Adored,” Ben reads, sounding very stoned and a little too wistful for Richie’s liking. _

_Richie looks over at him._

_“You sound so high right now, Benjamin,” he says, giggling in an obnoxiously-stoned way. _

_Ben looks surprised, then laughs indignantly. “So do you, Rich!”_

_They crack up. _

_Richie stares up at the ceiling in contented silence. _

_“Hey, Ben?” he asks slowly. _

_“Yeah, Rich?” Ben replies, slowly. _

_“You know how if we ask, Mike always says dating’s too hard, and he doesn’t have time for it?” Richie starts, staring patterns into the plaster of the ceiling. “He’s happy right?”_

_Ben doesn’t reply for a moment, looking pensively at the ceiling too. “He’s busy, at least,” Ben says, thoughtful and slow. “But I hope so. Why?” he asks, turning to look at Richie. _

_Richie feels his cheeks heating up, and shrugs, looking up again. “I don’t know.”_

_Ben lets it go. _

_The song changes. _

_Ben gasps softly. “Oh, this one. I like this one.” _

_“Mhmm,” Richie says, he likes this one too. It’s comforting to know that people before you got it, felt as weird and shitty as you, grew up to write songs about it letting you know it’s not just you, the only weird, shitty one. _

_Thom Yorke miserably sings, _I want a perfect body, I want a perfect soul_. _

_If Richie notices Ben very, very quietly singing along he doesn’t bring it up. He sings along quietly too, staring up at the ceiling and its old paint. _

“I want you to notice, when I’m not around. You’re so fucking special. I wish I was special.”

_Maybe just because he’s profoundly stoned, or because of the music, or because he almost wishes Ben didn’t identify with it as much as he himself does, but he finds himself reaching out for Ben’s hand._

_It’s kind of clammy and soft, although not as soft as it was now he’s started building things. Working with his hands. Richie thinks idly that he’d never be bold enough to be this gentle around Eddie. At least now in their usual lives, their usual mode. He’d be freaking out, if he had decided to comfort Eddie this way. He doesn’t feel anything, holding Ben’s pudgy hand, except an instinct towards comfort. He supposes he’d had that, surprisingly since just after they’d met. Something about him made you want to protect him. _

_Ben accepts it without question. They don’t look at each other. _

_“You know I’m not cool enough to know these songs, but can I borrow this mix, Rich?” Ben asks, quietly. _

_“You got it, Benny boy,” Rich says, a little more fake-jovially than he means. _

_“Thanks,” Ben says. _

_They sit and listen to the music. _

_“I hope he isn’t, but maybe it’s ok if Mike’s not totally happy,” Ben says, suddenly. “Maybe… like, all of this music is just, like, proof…” _

_He’s slowed down because of the weed, and Richie looks at him sidelong. “Proof?”_

_Ben shrugs. “That you can just be sad. You can feel sad, and people have felt weird and sad and lonely and channelled it into really…fucking beautiful things, you know?”_

_He hasn’t let go of Richie’s hand. It’s comfortable enough that Richie leaves it there. _

_“Yeah,” Richie says, slowly. He looks at Ben, feeling suddenly uncomfortably high and emotional – not like crying, but like he just wants to say everything to him, tell him that he doesn’t need to be sad, because he’s the most kind kid Richie knows, and he’ll at least be able to find someone once he’s out of here. “I’m sorry you…feel like that, Ben,” he says, instead. It’s not nearly enough, but it’s all he can handle. _

_Ben nods. “I’m ok. I’d rather feel like this than not…” he sighs out. “Feel this way, about her. Even though she doesn’t see me that way, and she’s my friend, and Bill’s my friend, and it’s not like I think we’ll ever…” he pauses, and then continues. “I’m glad to know her, you know? I’m glad we’re friends. Maybe that’s enough.”_

_Richie considers this. He’d stubbed the joint out a while ago, and now he wishes he could take another drag. Maybe it is enough. Though, it’s a mark of how high he is already that he’s not having a panic attack thinking about it all this plainly. Maybe it is enough, just to be able to hang out and read comic books and say stupid things that make him laugh. _

_It’s not like Ben, or Mike even. It’s not like they could date, even if Eddie – well, high as he is, he can’t even think it. _

_“Maybe. It’s not your fault. She’s pretty fucking great,” Richie says, with a small grin at him. _

_Ben flushes. “Yep,” he says weakly. “I thought you liked her for the longest time, you know?”_

_Richie laughs. “I love her, but I don’t like her that way. There’s already too much drama at that buffet.” _

_“Ew. Is she the buffet?” Ben says, and Richie cringes. _

_“Sorry, and also never tell her I said that.” _

_Ben laughs. “Obviously.”_

_He looks at Richie. “You know, you don’t have to, but you can tell me who it is. It’s not like I’d judge you, whoever it was. How could I?” _

_Richie looks back up at the ceiling. “Who says I’m in your boat?”_

_“Getting stoned and listening to sad-alt rock love songs with me on a Saturday afternoon?” Ben supplies flatly. “Pining recognises pining.” _

_Richie laughs, a stoned, semi-hysterical laugh. “Point taken.” _

_He thinks about it for a moment. It would be easy to tell him. He could just do it. Ben would probably understand the hopelessness of it all better than anyone else. But it’s not exactly the same. If Ben can get high and hold his hand, Ben who has never said anything nasty to him, Ben who just wants to make everyone happy, he’s probably not the type to freak out and hate him for it. After everything they’ve been through together, he almost knows he wouldn’t._

_But he just can’t take that risk._

_Ben is listening to Bernard Sumner hopelessly singing _I’ve lost you I’ve lost you I’ve lost you I’ve lost you_, over and over again. His face, while not particularly handsome to the average and potentially cruel teenager, has so much love and character to it. He listens to music raptly, pure enjoyment, pure emotion. Richie kind of loves him, although not like – _

_He can’t say it. _

_He’s only ever told Stan, and that was only because Stan is evil and way too good at knowing things about people, and he kind of guessed anyway. It’s not something he can just say. _

_“I’m – I can’t. Not right now,” Richie whispers. “But…let’s just say I get your whole fuckin’, unrequited love thing.”_

_Ben squeezes his hand. “Oh… I’m sorry, Rich,” he says, immediately understanding. “It really does suck.”_

_Richie attempts to talk, makes a strange noise, and shuts up. “Thanks, Ben.”_

_He doesn’t let go of Ben’s hand yet. It’s kind of nice to have someone’s hand to hold, at least temporarily. _

_“Prom’s gonna suck though, right?” he says, finding his voice and half-laughing. “It’s going to be like today except we’ll have to hang out with all the couples.”_

_Ben groans. “Don’t remind me. It’s still way off, thankfully. It’s not like I’m gonna get a date between now and then, though,” he says, a touch bitterly. _

_Richie blows a raspberry. “Let all the boring couples go together. We can go as friends. Go stag. And if Mike doesn’t have a date, although he probably will, he can come with us.”_

_Ben smiles. “I’d like that.” He pauses. “Mike will probably have a date though, right? I know for a fact Shelby Peterson wants to ask him out, she’s always giggling with her friend about it in Bio.”_

_“Hard to imagine he won’t,” Richie says, grinning. “A lot of people are into the muscly, handsome farmboy look. Personally, I don’t get it.”_

_Ben cracks up, and Richie finds himself cracking up too._

Richie sighs. “God, we really were lame then, huh?”

This, surprisingly, doesn’t cheer Ben up. Richie knocks his shoulder into Ben’s. “At least we were lame together, though.”

Ben smiles, just a little. “Yeah we were. Me pining over Bev, and you…”

Richie contemplates his beer. He’s really trying to make it last, but he’ll finish it soon. And then he’ll want to order another one, but he’s not going to do that. Not today. 

He sighs, figuring he should just come out with it. So to speak. He’s told two different people today.

“And me over Eddie,” he says, quietly. There aren’t a lot of people around them, but he’s still not planning to shout it out loud. “I don’t know if I ever told you, but yeah…”

Ben nods, and smiles, genuinely, at him. Richie had forgotten how comforting that used to be. Still is. “Well thanks for...doing that, Rich. That’s really amazing.”

Richie snorts. “Is it?” He looks at Ben suspiciously. “You could at least be a _bit _surprised, jeez,” he adds, grumpily. 

Ben actually looks chastened, and Richie feels guilty. He was _mostly _joking. 

“I’m sorry, it’s not that I _knew _\- I just kind of understood how you felt, because I was in the same position, and you…” Ben tries to explain apologetically, and he drops his voice a bit. “When I thought about it, it made sense. When you thought no one was watching you looked at him like I looked at her when I thought no one would see. Like you knew you’d never have a shot, but you couldn’t help it.”

Richie looks at Ben and finds his words failing him. Rare for him. He’s suddenly struck by a kind of nostalgia, some kind of deep affection for Ben’s kind, solid, comforting presence. “Uh, yeah,” he says, weakly. “_Fuck._”

“_Fuck_,” Ben echoes, with feeling. 

They drink in silence for a moment. 

Ben looks at him with solemn curiously. “Did you ever get over it?”

Richie just thinks about it, doesn’t even say anything yet, but Ben seems to understand.

“You too? Still?” 

Richie nods. 

Ben sighs. “Can I ask...when did it start, for you? How long?”

Richie contemplates his very nearly empty bottle. “Fuck, man…” he starts. “I can’t - I don’t know when, really. He was just always...there, since I was what, seven?” He looks back at Ben. “I guess I remember being aware that it was something _else _by the time I was thirteen.” 

Ben nods. “It was...a pretty intense year for us all, I think.” He pauses, and half-chuckles.  
“Actually, no, that’s a lie. It was pretty quiet for me until I moved towns, met a pretty girl, made some friends and then everything went batshit crazy for a summer.”

Richie chuckles. “That’s one fuckin’ way to put it, I guess.”

Ben nods, almost smiling. “I don’t regret it, though.”

Richie is surprised by how much he’s struck by this. He’s getting sloppy and emotional in his old age. “Me...either, actually. Mostly.” 

Ben finishes his drink and looks sideways at Richie. “Twenty-seven years, huh?” 

“Twenty seven fuckin’ years, Christ,” Richie agrees, frustrated. He looks at Ben’s empty glass. “You can order another drink, if you want. I’ll just get a coke.”

“Sure?” Ben asks, looking surprised. He obviously wants to ask, but doesn’t. Richie appreciates that. He’s not sure he can handle disappointing Ben yet. Maybe, by now, Bill knows too, maybe Mike’s let him know. He’s not sure he has it in him to apologise to everyone in turn. 

*

Ben’s got another drink. Richie is drinking his coke and kind of resenting it because it reminds him of being too young to drink in bars, but he’s wearing his self-imposed punishment. He’s not going to get trashed for the second time today. Both for his liver’s sake, (_you never cared before why fucking start now? _Is what he thinks it would say if it could speak) and out of fear he’ll say something cruel and damaging to Ben as well, and he’s got no issue at all with Ben. It’d be like kicking a puppy. 

It’s kind of nice to be able to talk to him about it all, too. 

“Ugh,” Ben groans. “I did the _lamest _things, too,”

Richie cackles. “Like what?” 

Ben colours, and takes another sip. “Just after we met I wrote her a poem. On a postcard. But I was too embarrassed to sign it, so I just wrote, _from a secret admirer. _God, why did I think that would be a good idea ever?” He groans again, half-hiding his face in his hands as he rubs his eyes.

Richie laughs, and it turns into a long-suffering sigh. “Ah man, that _is _lame. Not nearly as lame as what I’m about to share with you, but still.”

Ben looks at him, interested but still embarrassed. 

“Fuck…” Richie says, taking another sip of his drink. _Nope, still soda. No mind-numbing properties here. _“I’m really not drunk enough for this shit, but fuck it. You remember the summer we met?”

Ben raises a very disbelieving eyebrow. “Yeah, I remember one or two things about it,” he deadpans, unbelievably already tipsy. Always a lightweight, apparently. \

Richie smirks. “Yeah, thought so. So, all of that, sure, saved your life from a psychopath, had to fight a different psychopath, kidnapping serial killer business - that’s all background noise to what I’m about to tell you.”

Ben laughs, incredulously. “Sure, of course.”

Richie laughs, too, and looks at his drink. “You remember the kissing bridge?” 

Ben gives him such a disbelieving look at this it’s almost like he’s channelling Stan. Which hurts, like an unexpected sharp pain in his side. “Yeah, again. Vaguely familiar,” he deadpans again. He’s not generally one for deadpan humour, but Richie supposes it’s their influence on him.

Richie laughs again, not mockingly. “Oh right, yeah, sorry Ben. But when not being used by garbage rednecks to bully innocent kids, that bridge was a place of - affection, and other things. Certain souvenirs were carved there.” 

Ben snorts. “So?” Then he narrows his eyes, working it out. “No!”

Richie sighs deeply. “Yes. It’s true, I’m the worst. I carved our initials into the bridge. In a heart. I swear to God, if Bowers had found me…” He trails off at the dark thought. Ben looks solemn, no doubt remembering his own run-in there. 

“I just -” he starts, surprising himself. “It was after I had that fight with Bill. It felt like the world was - fucking _ending _and I just needed to put it somewhere, in case something fucking happened, and no one ever knew. It was me sticking it to the man, and the whole fuckin’ town, you know?”

Ben looks at him, almost - proud? He smiles. “Well, I think you lied to me. That’s not lame at all that’s pretty - punk rock of you, Rich.”

Richie laughs at this, but he can’t help feeling surprisingly warm at this. Ben’s always been good like that. “Well, I didn’t think Eddie would ever see it anyway, so.” He looks down. “I kind of wish I could have taken it with me. Just a small bit. That’s fuckin’ weird, I know.” 

Ben looks at him, surprised.

“I can’t believe I’m about to tell you this, because you’ll absolutely call me pathetic - and you’re probably right - but I get that. I kept.” He pauses, with an awkward laugh. “She was the only person to sign my yearbook in seventh grade, and I...couldn’t seem to throw it out. It was all I had left of her.” He groans. “I know. I know, it’s weird.”

Richie grins, full of affection again, suddenly. He throws an arm around Ben’s shoulders jovially. “Hey, you say awkward and weird, I say the sort of thing that would happen in a romcom where the guy looks like you. When guys as hot as you do that shit, it’s deeply romantic.”

Ben laughs ruefully. “Thank God for the weight loss, then.”

Richie shakes his head. “I’m just being a dick, not saying it properly, but coming from you, as a person? Very sweet. Only the slightest bit weird.” 

This does make Ben laugh genuinely.

Ben nods slowly, still smiling. It fades a little, when he says, “She kept hers though, too. I mean, she didn’t know it was me, but she kept it. I thought it meant something.” 

Richie nods. “I mean, it doesn’t not mean something, if that makes any sense?”

Ben side-eyes him. 

Richie grins. “I mean like - for her to keep it this long, it meant a lot to her too. Maybe it’s not as lost a cause as you think?”

Ben looks at his drink, and takes a big sip. “I really don’t know.”

He looks at Richie. “What about you? You could tell Eddie, I think. At least then you’d know.”

Richie almost spits his drink out. "Oh God, Ben. I know you're trying to be nice and supportive, but remember who you're talking about." He takes another sip, mainly to avoid looking at Ben. "And he’s very, very, heterosexually married," he adds, unable to keep a sting of bitterness out of it.

Ben looks at him very empathetically, and Richie has to look back at his drink.

"I mean, yeah. I'm - obviously - not the person to be giving out romantic advice. What the hell do I know?" Ben says, a little sadly. "I just think...better to know where you stand." 

Richie snorts, but it's unmistakably bitter. "I know where I stand. On the other side of Eddie's white picket fence. And I know I'm not welcome."

Ben looks at him, in the same caring way, and almost says something, but doesn't.

"I don't have a picket fence, but you know you're always welcome at my place," he says suddenly, and again Richie is at a loss for words.

"Thanks, Ben," he manages after a moment.

Ben nods, and smiles.

*

“You know, the funny thing is I barely drink back home. Too busy working,” Ben muses, drunker, looking at his glass. 

Richie laughs, darkly. “Funny thing is, I drink way more at home. Helps with _my_ work.” 

Ben gives him another curious look, maybe just drunk enough to ask. "Not like it's a bad thing, but why aren't you drinking past that one beer?"

Richie looks at him. The time was going to come sooner or later. “I made some pretty fucked up mistakes today, and then I made them worse by fucking…drinking. Getting drunk. So I figured, maybe don’t do it twice in one day.”

Ben looks at him, confusion in his expression solidifying into worry. “Today? What happened today?” he asks slowly.

Richie sighs deeply. He takes his glasses off, rubs his eyes, tries and mostly fails to clean them on his shirt, and then replaces them. “Fuck. Alright. Here goes, but just know I’ve already been yelled at a lot, and I already feel like crap, and I’m also sober.”

Ben nods slightly, looking more concerned than suspicious.

He looks at his drink. “I fucked up with Eddie. We got into a really bad fight, I won’t go into what about but –“ his voice catches, scrapes against the edges of his throat. “I was pretty fucking nasty to him, he was pretty fucking callous to me, and long story short I’m not sure he’ll ever talk to me again.” He glares at his drink, willing it to have a generous serving of rum in it when he next picks it up.

“And you were…drunk during that fight?” Ben says, playing catch up, but sounding worried.

Richie shakes his head. “I was sober at that point. The drinking came after.”

“Ah,” Ben says. “Jesus, Richie, I’m sorry.”

Richie looks at him. “Why are you sorry for me? I’m the one who fucked up.”

Ben shrugs. “Seems like he hurt you, though. Maybe unwittingly. I remember he used to be able to do that – not meaning to, he’d just say something and I’d see the look in your eyes. I’m sorry if you’re feeling like that again.”

Richie nods, and looks back at him. “Ben, you can’t be hot, rich, and all, fuckin’, emotionally mature and empathetic and shit. Didn’t anyone tell you that you’re only allowed two at most?”

Ben smiles, abashed. “Whatever, I’m just saying, Rich. Your feelings are valid, even when you’re a dick about them.”

Richie grins slightly. “That’s what Bev said, too.”

Ben’s face falls a bit. “She’s good like that.”

Richie wants to follow up with him, maybe try and cheer him up but he doesn’t get a chance because Ben keeps talking.

“You said you made it worse, though…did you try and talk to him again?”

Richie hangs his head, and contemplates the bar. Here it comes. The shittiest thing he’s done today, and maybe in the last month. Maybe in his whole life. Picking a fight with Eddie wasn’t good, but on some level he still feels like Eddie deserved to get into it. But picking a fight with Stan – that was unnecessarily cruel, and definitely uncalled for.

“No, I –“ he gulps. “I also got into it with Stan. I didn’t want to go back to my room, so I went to see him and Mike, and I was the worst fucking friend ever, and he _definitely _never wants to talk to me again. And I don’t blame him, I was _really shitty_.”

He doesn’t look at Ben. Ben doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t know what’s going on until Ben pats him on the back.

He looks at Ben, and his eyes feel hot and uncomfortable, and he’s not going to cry in a bar when he’s sober and it is way too early in the evening. “I don’t know what to do, Ben. About any of it,” he says, getting choked up.

Ben looks empathetic. “I think…apologising is probably your best start. If they don’t accept, then we figure it out from there, but you won’t get there without starting with a genuine apology.”

“That’s what Bev said. Ugh. Being an adult is _hard,_” he says irritably, and thinks for a moment. “We?” he adds, surprised.

Ben nods. “Of course, man. I’m here for you, ok? We look after each other.”

“God, Ben, you’re too fuckin’ _good_,” Richie says, and Ben freezes.

“That’s what she said to me. When she got upset,” Ben says, miserably. “I’ve never been too good for her. I don’t get it.”

Richie looks at him and sighs. “Look, I don’t know much about this shit either. You know I’m the last fuckin’ person you wanna come to for relationship advice,” he starts. “But I think she’s wrong. Or not wrong, but she’s afraid. To trust it. And confused, right now, and coming out of a really fuckin’ _dark_ time in her life, and she’s still technically in this fucked-up marriage. You know how she reacts when she’s scared and confused. She has to protect herself.”

Ben looks at him for a moment, and nods slowly. “So… you think it’s a defence mechanism?”

Richie shrugs. “Like I said, I don’t know. I’m just guessing. But … maybe she just needs to remember that she knows you. And that you know her. I don’t know, man.”

Ben smiles at him, grateful. “You’re more insightful than you give yourself credit for, Rich.”

Richie waves it off. “Don’t go spreading it round.”

Ben smiles into his drink as he takes a sip.

“So, what happens if Eddie and you make up? Are you going to say anything about it?” he says, making Richie almost choke for the second time that night.

“Jesus, Ben,” he says, coughing. “I told him what I am. He very firmly stated he was _married_, to a _woman_. I think that one’s DOA. It’s probably been DOA for the last twenty-seven years and I’ve been too fuckin’ afraid to look too close.”

Ben looks at him. “Did you actually…tell him, though? Or did you just say the first part and expected him to connect the dots after that?”

He has a habit of being slyly on the money sometimes.

Richie groans. “Look, he has fucking - deductive reasoning skills!”

Ben chuckles.

“Anyway, he’s happily married. It’s a fucking non-starter,” Richie grumbles bitterly. 

Ben gives him a strange look. “OK, I’m not trying to – I don’t know them together, I’m getting this from scattered things from the last few days, but…I don’t think he’s exactly _happy_. Have you seen him take a call with her? It doesn’t seem very…healthy, as much as I know about that. Just something to keep in mind.”

Richie smiles, and looks sideways at him. “Thanks, Ben. I think I’ll just focus on just repairing what’s left of our friendship.” He chuckles. “You keep coming to my rescue like this, though, I might start to think it was you I should’ve had an all-encompassing crush on.”

Ben grins. “Well, if I was attracted to men, I think you would have been a way better person to have a crush on. You were single, for one. Would have made my teen years a lot less angsty.”

Richie chuckles again, unconvinced. “I appreciate you kindly trying to cheer me up, but I think we both know _that’s _not true. And it would’ve been a nightmare having a crush on me.”

Ben chuckles. “I don’t agree. You were there for me, when I could barely tell anyone else about it. You’re kinder than you’ll admit.”

Richie sighs. “I’m also more of an asshole than you think, Ben.”

Ben shakes his head. “You’re sober, right? Just go see one of them. Apologise. Start from there.”

Richie thinks about it. It seems simple when said like that. He _had _been planning to do something like that before he bumped into Ben.

*

Outside, Richie goes to head to the car. He’s got the car keys, because as the sober friend he can actually drive. This is a rare win.

Ben stops.

“What? Forget something?” Richie says.

Ben shakes his head, and looks suddenly melancholy. “I can’t go back to the guest house Richie. I need to be away from Derry just for tonight. You take the car back, I’ll find a motel here, and I can try and get a bus back in the morning or something.”

“Ben – “ he starts, and tries to dissuade him. Ben will not be moved, so he finds himself checking a fairly drunk Ben into the nicest B&B he can find in town.

After ensuring that he’s ok to find his room, he sets off again. It’s barely night. He knows who he has to see.

***

Stan is sitting in the hallway, bumping his head against the wall behind him. He hasn’t been doing this the whole time he’s been sitting there, but he has been there pretty much since Mike left.

The head-bumping is a compulsive behaviour, he knows. He knows that he used to do it when he was upset, when he was very little, but he was trained out of it, and then again just after he almost died in the sewers, and then his parents made him go to a therapist. Maybe that was when he started thinking he could be one.

Logically, at some point he’ll have to move. He’ll have to get up and do things, like make dinner, and get ready for bed, and go to sleep. He knows that if he doesn’t, he’s risking a lot of progress. He doesn’t want to go back to the headspace he was in. He wants to get up, and keep moving forward. Right now, though, he doesn’t have the energy. So he just sits in the hall.

He can’t help but think about everything. He knows he’s been advised in various therapy sessions not to dwell because it doesn’t help, but it’s pretty clear to him that he’s always been a failure and it’s ridiculous that he ever thought different. Failed at marriage, failed at his job probably, by the time he gets home, failed at being brave, failed at being an adult. Failed at not hurting people that he loves.

He hears a knock on the door and stops mid-head-bump. His heart skips a bit, hoping somehow it will be Mike.

His face falls when he opens it. Of course Mike’s not coming back. After what he said? He wouldn’t want to stay either.

“I thought I made myself clear before,” he says shortly.

Richie holds up a hand. He looks different – more awake, no trace of the cruelty and hurt from his expression earlier. He looks deeply remorseful.

He should be.

“I know – I know I’m literally the last fucking person you wanna see right now, man, and I get it if you slam the door in my face, but I came back because –“

Richie falters, and Stan really does consider slamming the door. He really doesn’t have the fucking energy to help Richie with this right now.

Richie looks at him, determinedly. “I came back because I fucked up, as I tend to do, but I’m trying to fix it. Because I’m so, so, _so _goddamn sorry for everything. Because I fucking love you, man, and you don’t do that to people you love.”

Stan’s suddenly dangerously close to tears again. Fucking _Richie_. He’s never been one for apologising a lot, even when you really think he should, but Stan’s forgotten the force of emotion he brings to it if he ever does.

There’s silence. “You –“ Stan starts. “You smell like a bar. You go drinking again?”

Richie shakes his head. “It’s a long story, Ben needed cheering up so I was technically _in_ a bar with him but I swear to _God _I am stone cold sober.” He pauses. “And also, just fucking cold, but that’s not your issue, I know.”

Stan stares at him, filing the Ben thing away to ask about later. Richie really does look cold, and Stan can feel it just from the doorway.

He caves, sighing. “Alright, well come in at least. Only because I don’t want your death from frostbite on my conscience.”

Richie seems surprised, but follows him in quickly.

They stand in the much warmer hallway, in uncomfortable silence. It’s the kind of ridiculous spiritualism he would have hated as a child, but as he gets older he tends to think places get haunted. Not by ghosts, or anything like that, but by strong emotions and memories. He’s been finding it a lot since he came back to this town. He found it at home, after Patty left. This hallway is haunted by what they said to each other mere hours ago.

“Stan, I –“ Richie starts, awkwardly.

Stan looks at him. “I can’t do this here. Can we just – go into the living room to talk?”

Richie nods, seeming relieved as well.

They stand in the living room, just as awkwardly. It’s better though.

Richie looks at him. “Should I speak, or, do you want to –“

“_Richie,_” he says, already half-regretting this conversation.

“Right, right,” Richie says quickly, apologetically. “I – ok, I hadn’t really gotten past what I said outside because I didn’t really think you’d let me in…” Richie gives him a curious look. “Why did you let me in? Is it so you can chop my body up into little pieces and dissolve me in a bathtub? I’m sure you’ve seen _Breaking Bad _–“

“Fucking hell, _Richie,_” he says, exhaustedly.

Richie throws his hands up. “I’m sorry, you know I tend to babble and talk shit when I’m nervous –“

“And when you’re awake,” Stan can’t help adding dryly.

Richie’s lip quirks, almost a grin. He nods and then looks at Stan again, and says, unusually slow and careful, “Not that I’m against it – I’m very grateful you did – but for a very good reason before, you said you never wanted to see me again. Why didn’t you just – slam the door on me? I would’ve fucking deserved it, Stan.” He genuinely means it, Stan realises. He’s searching.

Stan looks at him, and feels angry for a moment. “You would’ve, Rich. You were really _cruel, _and I don’t care that you were drunk. It just makes me fucking – worried, that you actually think those things, that I’m – _pathetic –_ and you just haven’t been saying them to me.”

Richie looks genuinely upset. “Stan, you know – you just said – most of the shit I say doesn’t mean anything. But that doesn’t mean I should have said it, and I’ll never be able to say sorry enough, but you have to know you’re not pathetic, and I really don’t think that. You’re not weak, you’re a fucking _fighter, _man, you always have been. You’re a fucking _survivor, _and if bravery is just fucking doing something even though you’re fucking terrified, then you were the fucking bravest of us all because you didn’t want to go into the sewers, but you did, man. For us. For Bev. For fucking, me –“ he says, and his voice cracks. “I meant what I said outside man, I fucking love you, you’re my fucking brother, Stan! I’m so _sorry_!” He’s actually welling up, tears teetering on the edge, below his glasses.

“Fucking _hell_ Richie, you’ve done it now,” Stan croaks out before he starts crying too.

Richie is hugging him immediately, and he doesn’t resist. He cries. He hugs Richie back. Richie might also be crying, but he can’t tell.

Stan pulls back a little when he’s got control of himself again. Richie has taken off his glasses to wipe his eyes.

“I think that’s the longest speech I’ve ever heard you make seriously,” Stan says weakly.

Richie half-laughs, a watery kind of laugh. “I don’t think I’ve cried this much since 1991.”

“_My Girl_?” Stan asks, knowing Richie’s attempting to be flip again.

Richie nods, smiles a little. “Fucking bees.”

They stand around in silence for a moment.

Richie looks at him, and coughs, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry, Stan.”

Stan shakes his head. “I know. It’s…well, I think you’ve tortured yourself enough. I forgive you, alright?”

Richie shakes his head, looking at him strangely. His eyes are watery again, under his glasses. “It’s not enough, Stan. It’s never going to be enough, because I should never have said that last thing to you, but I – I’m angry at you for it. And I fucking hate myself for that.”

“For…” he says, throat already feeling swollen. He pulls at his shirt sleeves protectively. “Angry?”

“I hope I don’t regret saying this, but I’m feeling like, the window for me being emotionally honest is about to slam shut and then it’ll be back to bottling my emotions up for the next fifty years, so I’ll just say it but I’m fucking _angry, _Stan,” he says, a flash of it in his eyes. “Because you almost did that, and I wouldn’t have been able to forgive you, but I could never fucking _hate your memory –_“ He starts to cry again.

Stan wraps his arms around him again. Richie has to bend down into the hug, to lie his head on Stan’s shoulder. He feels like he’s crying again too. “I’m sorry. But kind of, thank you?” he says, honestly.

“Thank you?” Richie says, muffled. He looks back up at Stan with red, bewildered eyes.

“I’m so grateful to everyone, for being here and for being so kind to me,” Stan starts, words sort of sticking in his throat. “But I – I fucked up. So much. I’ve just been…waiting, for someone to be angry at me, you know? Because I nearly threw away so –“ the rest of his sentence gets swallowed up in a sob. “I’m a fucking failure, Rich, I can’t stand myself –“

Richie braces his hands on Stan’s shoulders. “Hey. Hey. Fucking _look _at me, Stan.”

Stan looks down, blinking.

“Staniel. Staniel Day Lewis. Stanislavsky. Stan the Man,” Richie tries. “I can keep going man, but I’m sure you remember it only gets worse from here.”

Stan looks up at him, balefully. Richie stares back at him, serious. “You might be a fucking loser, Stan, but you’re not a fucking failure. Except, maybe, at killing yourself. Thank fuck.”

Stan stares at Richie in disbelief for a moment. Richie starts to look worried.

Then Stan finds a bubble of unexpected laughter coming out of him. He keeps laughing, just this side of hysterical although not quite. It’s genuine. For some reason, it’s really very funny.

Richie joins in, too, both of them laughing so much that tears are starting to roll down their cheeks again, but it’s not sadness this time.

“I hate you so _fucking much, Richie,_” Stan says, wheezing.

Richie grins widely. “You fucking _love me so much, _Staniel.”

Stan nods, wiping his eyes. “I fucking love you so much, Richie. This is the first time I’ve understood how you make any money at your job.”

Richie laughs. “Fuck, everyone’s a comedian I guess.”

There’s a moment or two of comfortable silence.

“You wanna sit down? I’m fucking exhausted,” Stan asks.

Richie grins. “Fuck yes! I genuinely thought you’d never ask.”

*

They sink into one of the couches, sitting next to each other.

Richie looks around. “Where is Mike, anyway?”

Stan had briefly managed to forget he’d destroyed his whole relationship with Mike in the emotion and euphoria of making up with Richie. It sinks heavily back down in his stomach and lies there painfully. Stan sinks further into the couch, frowning.

“Oh. Oh no,” Richie says, quietly, uncomfortably.

“You asked why I let you back in, before,” Stan says, weakly. “It wasn’t just the cold. I genuinely thought just after you left that I never wanted to see your face again. I was so _angry _at you, I couldn’t believe you’d said that stuff to me.”

Richie looks at him guiltily. “I know, and –“

“It’s alright, I’m not trying to guilt you, you’re well and truly forgiven,” Stan says, giving him a small smile. It hurts, though. He doesn’t feel smiley. “But I was so hurt, and fucked-up and confused, and about a thousand other things that are just fucking excuses, really – I lost it at Mike. Completely unfairly.”

“Seems to be going around today,” Richie mutters.

“Yeah, I guess,” Stan replies, although two doesn’t exactly make a pattern.

“I’m sure that it wasn’t…that bad,” Richie says, unconvincingly. Stan snorts, and Richie makes a protesting noise. “Hey, I’m not the therapist here, I’m not good at real-life advice.”

Stan nods.

“Thanks anyway,” he says, almost smiling. He sighs jaggedly. “No I really fucked it up. I fucking – accused him of having, having ulterior motives for helping me. I basically called him crass and opportunistic.”

Richie sucks a breath in. “Oh.”

Stan takes his glasses off and scrubs his hands over his face for a moment. “I’m such a fucking _asshole_. I don’t even have the excuse of being drunk at the time.”

“I thought you said that wasn’t an excuse,” Richie counters.

Stan looks at him, miserably. “That’s why I let you in though. One moment I was shocked that you could treat me like that and the next I was awful to someone I care about, _so much,_ who has only – literally _ever _– tried to help me out.” He blinks and looks away. “Couldn’t exactly keep the moral high ground with you, after that.”

“Ah man, fuck,” Richie says, guiltily. “Was it – was it because of what I said? I should just fucking – stop talking for a year – which won’t be great for my career, but…”

Stan shakes his head against the couch cushions. “Nope. Well, not really. I don’t know – I mean, you might have stirred up a few difficult feelings but…” he says, and sighs again, frustrated. “There’s been this tension since – maybe even since I saw him again, just building up, and I don’t know what I’m feeling or if he’s feeling it but you know what I’m like with tension –“

“Our little pressure cooker,” Richie adds. Stan shoots him a deathly side-eye. 

“I don’t know why, it was like I was – possessed, or something. Like I could see it happening, and I was like _what the fuck are you doing stop doing this! _But I couldn’t,” he says, frowning.

“I’m so sorry, man, I feel like I really got into your head with that letter. Also, if I haven’t apologised for that as well, I’m sorry for reading it. That was also fucked up and wrong, and I think maybe a crime? So if you want to send me to jail for mail crimes –“ Richie says, quickly, looking anxious.

Stan looks at him. “I think I can let that one slide,” he deadpans. “I’m not going to blame you though, Rich. I’m an adult, and I made my own decisions today. Not gonna lie though, that letter. That letter fucked me up, because I’d forgotten I wrote it and it all came flooding back, without even reading it and earlier –“ he says, and then stops himself.

Richie raises an eyebrow. “I say this in the nicest spirit possible, my good friend, but _earlier_? Did something happen during the _paint fight_?”

Stan rolls his eyes, can feel his face colouring. It hurts to even think about the paint fight. Things had been so easy at that point, all he had to worry about was – “We were messing around with the paint, while doing a touch up outside, and then I don’t even know what really happened but I think…Mike very nearly kissed me. Or I very nearly kissed him. Either way, it didn’t happen, but _something _happened, and it just made me more confused.”

Richie looks surprised. “Damn, look at you! What…stopped you?” he asks, curiously.

Stan frowns at him. “Well, our day-drunk friend startled us with loud, off-key singing and then yelled at me, it really kind of ruined the mood.”

Richie grimaces, apologetic. “Ok, I deserved that. Wish I’d never come back to yours, would have saved us both a lot of grief.”

Stan snorts. “Well, probably, but then as you said. Pressure cooker.”

Richie nods.

Stan looks at him. “Speaking of, why _were _you drunk? Mike told me something happened with Eddie?”

Richie does a double take, looking bewildered. “I’ve always wondered, but is Mike actually psychic?”

Stan narrows his eyes. “He had a phone and a good guess at who you were with, so, not exactly. You’re avoiding the question.”

Richie half-grins, but it’s sadder. “Nothing gets by you.”

“What happened? I know this is a stupid thing to say but, you were fine when you left?” Stan asks, seriously.

Richie cackles. He sounds very tired. Stan feels very tired too. “I can’t go into it all again, I already told Bev, but I’ll give you the broad strokes.”

“When did you see Bev?” Stan wonders. “Mike actually…he said something about her after he talked to her…is she ok?”

Richie makes a so-so motion with his hand. “She’ll be ok for now, I think, but she’s had her own shit to deal with today – for once, not my fault, though,” he says, and then looks at Stan suspiciously. “Which reminds me, she dropped some _very interesting _information about your wild NYU exploits, and I have many questions…“

Stan wonders briefly what he means, but decides against trying to follow it. “Richie. Broad strokes.”

“Right, but I’m coming back to that,” Richie says, with a small grin. It falls a little as he keeps talking. “Someone mistook us for married, and instead of being normal about it he got all weird. So then we got into a horrible fight and I somehow ended up coming out to him, and we said some pretty fucked-up things. And I’m still fucking mad at him. If you had been him, you wouldn’t have been weird about it.”

Richie sits and fumes about it, next to him. Clearly he’s worked through the worst of it with Bev, but he’s still hurting.

Stan looks at him sympathetically, but also a little sceptically. “Richie. I don’t think you’d have been mad if I _had_ been weird about it. Or not as mad.”

Richie scoffs. “I know,” he says, after a moment. “I just – I realised that I’ve been fucking _kidding myself _this whole time. The last two days or so. The last fucking twenty-seven years, or maybe even longer?”

He sighs heavily. “You were right, earlier. I was mad at you. I was mad that you’d managed what I fucking – couldn’t. And I was mad that you seemed to be so in love, and I don’t think I’ve _ever _–“ he breaks off. Stan looks at him, sad and sympathetic.

Richie looks back at him. “And I was mad that you didn’t tell me, man. I didn’t mind it from Mike, but you? I know it’s stupid and embarrassing, but I thought we _did _tell each other everything. You were like, my best friend! Or, you know, one of them obviously, but there was no one else like you, you know? You were the _only one I told _about me, and how I felt about Eddie, and maybe only because you guessed most of it –“

“You were not subtle,” Stan adds, and Richie chucks him on the arm.

Stan chuckles. 

Richie looks at him. “It’s fucking lame as hell, but I thought, if you knew that about you and you were the only person who knew about me, we could have been like – in it, together. Our secret weird thing. I would’ve been fucking _thrilled_ for you about Mike. After I got over any weird anger I might have had,” Richie concedes. “I just wanted you to want to confide in me, as well.”

Stan looks at him and feels freshly guilty. “Aw, Rich. I don’t know why – no, I know why. It all happened really quick, just before we left for college. I panicked, because I could barely deal with the idea of – being bisexual or whatever, I barely understood it, I don’t think I even named it. It was just a lot. I couldn’t deal with explaining it to anyone, at the time, and Mike, and so I explained it to no one. But you’re right…it might have helped you, if you knew we were secretly all in the same boat. I – I regret that now, Rich. I want you to know that.”

Richie nods. “Yeah I suppose I get it. I’m fuckin’ forty years old and I still can’t deal with it.”

Stan looks at him, and then up at the ceiling, resting his head against the cushions. “I’m sorry, man. If it makes you feel better, I still barely understand myself. I thought – I thought I’d never have to think about it again. I spent over two decades, give or take a college breakup, in a relationship with a woman, and she was the love of my life. I don’t know how to deal with anything else.”

Richie blows a breath out, looking up at the ceiling too. “Well, at least you got to be with her for any period of time. I would’ve blown any shot I got.” He snorts bitterly.

Stan sighs. “It’s really that bad? I mean, you got into some brutal shit with me and I forgave you, right? I refuse to believe he _hates _you now. He never did. Not even when he said he did, and he would rant on and on about how annoying you were being, and he would _not _shut up about you. Like I said, not subtle.”

Richie laughs a little. “Wait, what do you mean not subtle?”

Stan side-eyes him. “Come on. You know. He was kind of obsessed with you. You were kind of obsessed with each other.”

Richie sits up a little. “But like, not in the way I was with him, Stan. Right?”

Stan looks at him for a moment, awkwardly. Richie looks very serious, and almost desperate. “Stan, you can’t leave me hanging like this, come on,” he continues, anxiously.

He sighs again. He’d thought how Eddie felt about Richie stuck out like a neon sign bright enough to be seen from space, but maybe Richie couldn’t see it. Hard to see a storm when you’re in the eye of it.

“Look, Rich, I don’t _know _anything. It’s not like he ever said anything about it to me, but -" He hesitates. “I don’t know if you don’t wanna hear this right now –“

“I fucking do, Stan,” Richie says, frowning at him.

Stan scrunches his eyes up and opens them again. “I don’t think he’s happy, Rich. In his marriage. I don’t know what that means or why, and maybe it’s nothing to overthink. But when he talks about her – when I heard him talking to her on the phone – it reminded me of, and I know this is a horrible thing to say, but – the way he used to be with – “

“His mom?” Richie says heavily, and sighs.

“Right?” Stan says. “Mine might have ended, but we were never like that with each other. It was never a chore being married to her. Quite the opposite.” 

“You’re almost certainly right, but that’s why he probably hates me now, Stan,” Richie groans, and covers his face with a cushion.

“What?” Stan asks, and then his heart sinks for Richie. “You said that to him, didn’t you?”

“Yep,” comes Richie’s muffled reply.

“Ah,” Stan says, and punches him lightly.

“Ow,” Richie says, throwing away the cushion. “I _know._”

“So what are you going to do?” Stan asks.

Richie frowns. “I don’t know. He was pretty fucking brutal as well. And I’m still mad at him about the first thing.”

Stan turns and gives him a look. “Richie, if I can forgive you, which I have, for everything you said intentionally to me, you can forgive him for making a mistake. You wind each other up, you always have.”

Richie groans. “Why do you have to be such an _adult_ all the time?”

Stan pushes him, lightly, in the side. “That better?”

Richie smiles a little. “Better.” He looks at Stan sidelong. “I really have to apologise first?”

“Worked with me, didn’t it?” Stan says. “I know you can do it. You’re a brave fucking guy too.”

Richie looks surprisingly touched. “Thanks, man.”

Stan looks at him, remembering something he’d said earlier. “So, you ever going to tell me why you desperately had to take Ben to a bar?”

Richie nods, looking strangely mellow. “It’s apparently been a fuckin’ day for it, my man. From what I could tell from the both of them, separately, without saying too much - they had a nice morning, and then Bev kind of freaked out at him and ran off, and Ben was, kind of blindsided.” He chuckles weakly. “See, it’s not just me.”

Stan shakes his head. “God, poor Ben. Poor Bev. But she must have had a reason - you spoke to them both?”

Richie looks at him. “What other fiery redhead would storm into my room to yell at me for fighting with you then tell me to get my shit together and apologise?”

Stan chuckles a little, and looks back up at Richie, smiling a little. She’s still always looking out for him. He really does love her.

“One who has my back, huh?” he says, and then thinks about what she might have been thinking, to get mad at Ben of all people. Not that he can talk, he remembers with a sharp, painful twist of guilt. “I should call her. Is she ok?” he asks Richie, seriously.

Richie looks surprisingly serious, too. “Yeah, I mean, she’s not great. I think -” Richie pauses, more careful than Stan remembers him being. It sparks more sudden affection for Richie than he was expecting. He knows they both want the best for her, and are intimately aware of how far off that felt to her sometimes. Richie blows a breath out. “I think she definitely needs more help than I could give her, but my advice sucks balls anyway. You’d have been better, but I think she’s just got shit to figure out on her own, which sucks.”

Stan nods, morosely. “It does.” He smiles a little at Richie, thinking. “I’m sure you helped her though. You guys have your wonder-twin thing still.”

Richie smiles, grateful and kind of bittersweet. “Yeah…She was better when I left her, but she might still be taking a nap in my room. It’s been an exhausting day for her, I think.”

Stan raises his eyebrows at Richie. “Can’t relate,” he deadpans.

Richie sighs. “Fuck, I know. Can I blame some kind of airborne rage and otherwise crazy-making pathogen yet? What with all the goddamn fighting and kissing - “

Stan widens his eyes. “Who else almost kissed? Wait, sorry, who actually kissed?”

Richie looks sheepish, and Stan tumbles to it immediately. “Oh...that’s why she freaked out. Yeah, that makes more sense. Poor Bev,” he says, sadly.

Richie nods. “Yeah, it’s fucked.” He frowns. “It’s that piece of shit husband of hers, right?” he says, almost snarling.

Stan feels glowing embers of anger in his stomach igniting at the memory of last night, the marks the monster had left on his friend. “I can’t tell you too much,” he says, quietly and with cold fury. “But I can say I will do everything in my power to make sure he never gets near her again.”

Richie bares his teeth, grimacing angrily. “_Motherfucker_. Me too. Although I better not see him because I swear to God, I’d be waiting for him to give me a reason to beat the shit out of him.”

Stan nods darkly. “I don’t know if she’d want that, though.”

Richie looks at him, and then away, and doesn’t say anything. After a moment, he says, “It should have been Bill, his relationship seems like it’s _not _doing great. Or Ben. Ben would never hurt her. I wish - I wish she knew that.”

Stan looks at him, sadly. “I think she does, Rich. But I think - it’s more important she figures out what she wants. Maybe to be alone, even.”

Richie looks unexpectedly caught by this, and is quiet for a moment. “I guess Ben would at least know he told her. He might finally move on.”

Stan watches him, and sighs heavily, putting an arm around him lazily. “We’re all such fucking messes, huh?”

Richie splutters a laugh, a rueful sound. “You’re fucking right about that, Staniel. Do you think it was the clown trauma, or were we always just doomed to be losers from the start?”

Stan chuckles in the same way. “Doomed, maybe. The clown just made it worse.” He shakes his head. “We all just need to...sort out our shit with each other. Once and for all.” A twist of guilt spikes through his chest. “Although I’m a filthy hypocrite, because I’ll never be able to sort things out with Mike.”

Richie gives him a look. “A very wise idiot once told me if he could forgive me for what I did to him I could talk to the person I - fucking, care about, you know, Stanislaus?”

Stan groans. “I knew you were going to throw that in my face.”

Richie cackles, albeit without much oomph. “The student has become the master. He’ll forgive you, Stan. Of course he will.”

Stan sighs. “It’s not that I don’t think he’ll forgive me, if I’m sorry enough. It’s that I don’t deserve his forgiveness, Rich.”

He looks at Richie, genuinely feeling quite devastated all of a sudden.

Richie nods seriously, and opens his mouth.

“Ah, young grasshopper,” he says, and Stan groans. He grins and continues. “Again, as you and a beautiful redhead have told me today, you gotta try at least. Give him that opportunity.”

Stan looks at him sidelong. “Who says your advice sucks balls? They are, in my professional opinion, wrong.”

Richie cackles again, louder.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's back! january has taken approx one year to get through, and it's been a weird time in my life for the past two weeks so without the care and support of @manycoloureddays this probably wouldn't be here in any kind of timely fashion :D
> 
> the infamous Bev and Stan acid-taking coming out college visit is now actually a short(ish) fic I've written but I have to transcribe it digitally as I started it as a way to write away from my laptop and this big fic, hahah, when will i learn?? so that will be coming when I can get it fully digitised, which will hopefully be soon! 
> 
> hope you enjoyed this latest monster of a chapter, can't wait to publish the one I'm writing currently! :)


	8. Did You Ever Want It? Did You Want It Bad?

After several panicked messages and calls from his agent and other people with financial interest in his wellbeing, Bill had managed to reassure them he’d be back – with the ending written – very soon. He’d then decided to do two things for the day: turn his phone off so he wouldn’t be distracted, and actually get some work done.

He had talked to Audra when he got in, but he hasn’t spoken to her since. Well, that’s not true – he’s been replying to her texts, but he has been avoiding her calls. He doesn’t even know why, except maybe he kind of does, but he definitely feels guilty about it.

It’s just, things are _weird _right now, and it’s easier to be away from it and not deal with it than it is to be reminded that you have a life you have to go back to. He’s only been here since Friday, and he wants to stay with his friends. He’s only just gotten them back.

He’s gotten a bit done though, now that his phone is off. He’s still not sure about the ending of the movie, now he’s mostly written it – give or take some wrapping-up – but it’s something. He’s gotten something done, and he feels proud of that.

He looks at the clock on his laptop. _4:58 _pm.

Well, it’s close enough to 5pm to have a drink to celebrate. Maybe he can get some of the others to meet him after. He’s been cooped up inside being productive and responsible all day – he wants to go out.

He walks down to the guesthouse bar. There are barely any staff left at the guesthouse, so he’s not sure that the bar here will even be staffed, but it’s easier if he can stay here.

As he approaches the bar, he hears someone behind it.

“Excuse me, are you s-serving?” he asks.

There’s the sound of something hitting the underside of the bar and a sharply bitten off swear word in a voice that sounds like -

“Bev?” he asks, surprised.

She straightens up, rubbing her head and frowning. She’s holding a bottle of rum.

He raises an eyebrow at her.

“Ok, but I was going to leave money for it, Bill. There’s no staff on this bar,” she says, grumpily.

He grins. “I’ve just f-finished working, what’s your excuse?”

She smiles enigmatically at him. “Does one need an excuse to start drinking early right now?”

He laughs. “Currently, no. Can I share w-with you, then?”

She looks at him, then smiles wider. “Alright. What do you want? Bear in mind I haven’t made cocktails myself since I was about twenty-three.”

He chuckles. “Do y-you remember how to do a r-rum and coke?”

“Remind me of the ingredients again?” she says wryly.

He grins. “There’s p-probably mixers in the bar fridge, right?”

He hears her triumphant _ha! _when she finds the fridge and straightens up with a bottle of Coke in her hands.

She gets her wallet out, and puts a few bills under the bar. “Do you think they’re good there? If they actually had a bartender, I wouldn’t have to do this.”

Bill nods. “Yeah I think they have l-like… three staff m-members. M-maybe you can tell the old lady if she’s at the desk?”

Bev shrugs. “I guess. Now let me find their measuring shot – yes!” she says, and gets to work making their drinks.

She taps her glass against his.

“To…” he says, and thinks about it.

“To you getting some writing done, very productive,” Bev says, grinning.

He laughs, kind of embarrassed. “It’s not totally done. But m-mostly. Thanks.”

“Well, still a good effort,” she says, and they toast, and take a sip.

“Wow, you were n-not kidding around with the shot size,” he says, laughing in surprise.

“Hey, you see another bartender around here?” Bev says, mock annoyed.

“You’re r-right, thankyou for this very s-stiff drink,” he replies, grinning. “Come round and drink with m-me.”

Bev nods, smiling and comes around to sit with him. He passes her drink to her, and she takes a big sip.

“Long day?” Bill asks.

She smiles in that enigmatic, wry way again. “Just being here. I didn’t think it would get to me like this.”

He sighs. “I get you.”

She looks at him, a little sadly. “Yeah. Thought you would.”

He smiles at her, melancholier.

He takes another drink. “You know – I drove p-past my old house the other day. I don’t know what I was expecting to see. It’s m-mostly the same on the outside.”

Bev looks at him, with the same sad expression. “I liked that house.”

He looks at her, smiling in the same way. Kind of nostalgic. “There’s a new f-family there, of course. Their son – well, I’m assuming he was – was p-playing in the front yard. He looked about how old G-g-geo-” he starts, before the stutter swallows his words. He takes a sip of his drink, glaring down at it. Bev pats him on the back. He takes a breath. “Georgie was. M-maybe a little older.” He looks at her. “For a m-moment there, I wanted to run up and t-tell him to get the hell away from Derry. I didn’t. B-but I thought about it. Is that crazy?”

She sighs. “Aw, Bill. It’s not crazy. I – I totally get what you mean.”

She looks down. “It feels like everyone’s moved on, and times have changed maybe, but so much of this town doesn’t feel like it’s changed. Like I’m right back there. In all of the rotten parts, still a kid. Makes it harder to move on.”

He looks at her, in agreement. “Fuck, exactly like t-that.”

He contemplates his drink for a moment. “I’m sorry you feel that way though, Bev. If I could…m-make it better…”

She smiles at him. “I’d do the same for you, Bill, you know? But unfortunately…we’ve just gotta cope with it on our own.”

“N-not on our own,” Bill disagrees. “You always have m-me. And everyone else. But definitely, m-me.”

Bev smiles a little wider, eyes a bit misty. “Thanks. Same to you, obviously.”

He smiles, and nods. She’s definitely sad, maybe more than she’s letting on. He remembers what she looks like when she’s trying to hide it though. And up close, he can see her eyes are red and puffy from crying. He wonders what it is, and whether it’s one of things he knows about, or something new and terrible.

“Bev, y-you don’t have to talk about it but…is it y-your dad?” he asks, carefully.

She stiffens, then takes a sip of her drink. Then she nods.

He gives her time to speak.

She takes a sip. “I just – being here has been nice, so nice, to see you guys. I’ve missed you all _so damn much. _But being here makes me think about so much awful shit, too. So many places remind me of my dad, or they’re places I used to go to avoid him. I feel like he’s in my fucking _head,_ in a way he wasn’t able to be when I wasn’t here.”

Bill nods slowly, reaching out to pat her on the back softly. “I’m sorry, Bev. I know what you m-mean.” He winces. “Like m-my fucking _stutter _is back here! And it’s – I barely get it back home.”

She gives him a sympathetic look. “So it’s been worse here, then?” she asks, gently.

He shakes his head and looks down, dropping his hand back onto the bar. “Yep. I think it’s – it’s like things reminding y-you of y-your dad, feeling like a kid again. But y-yours is someone that y-you hated, and m-mine…” he breaks off. Being here makes him feel like several different ages, the five year old that first met Georgie in the hospital, the ten year old that played games with him, the thirteen year old that looked for him for so long, even though everyone else knew it was too late, the fifteen year old trying to cope with the truth of it, the eighteen year old who was ready to get away from it all. All of them were so long ago, it’s uncomfortable to feel them again.

He can feel his eyes getting hot, and he concentrates on taking another drink. It never takes long if he talks about Georgie. Which is why he doesn’t talk about Georgie.

Bev reaches over and touches his hand with hers, very gently. “Yours was someone you loved, and lost. They’re both terrible things to have to be reminded of all the time. I’m so sorry Bill.”

Her eyes are already filling with tears. She has such a big heart, she’s always been good at taking care of them. She was always so supportive of him, back then. She’s still so beautiful, even when she’s clearly been crying. And he doesn’t mean that she only cries beautifully, more that it’s who she is, beautiful even though her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy because he knew her so well. Someone he’d cared about so much a long time. Someone who he still cares a lot about now.

He turns his hand around under hers so he’s holding it. “Y-you don’t need to be. Being here isn’t all t-terrible.”

She smiles at him, and the sadness is still there but the smile is warm and genuine. “Yeah, it’s not too bad.”

He looks at her, and decides to ask. “So, is it just D-derry? Or is there a specific reason y-you’re d-drinking early?”

She chuckles, a small, tired sound. “I’m definitely not drunk enough to answer that.”

Bill nods. “Well, I think we can f-fix that.”

She clinks glasses with him. “Cheers to that!”

***

They’re on second drinks, when Bev notices that there’s an actual jukebox in the corner. When she points it out to Bill, he grins.

“Fucking finally!” he says, jumping up and going over to it.

“What are you doing?” she laughs, watching him. He’s such a dork. She’s really missed that.

“B-bear with m-me,” he says, holding up a finger. “_Fucking stutter._”

“I can’t hear anything,” she says, still laughing.

He turns around to grin at her. His smile is still kind of goofy, but it’s endearing. Very him. She’s missed that too. “Wait f-for it.”

“Alright, impress me,” she calls, and he laughs with his back to her, facing the jukebox.

The jangly beginning of the song surprises her, and she laughs. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you did this, Bill!”

“This was _your song _back in the day,” Bill says, grinning like an idiot.

“It fucking was,” she agrees, already kind of bopping along to it.

“Come and dance with me, then!” Bill says, beckoning her over to the jukebox.

“No!” she half-protests, laughing at his deliberately dorky dance moves. Well, she’s hoping they’re deliberate.

“Come on, Cornflake Girl!” he calls, ignoring her protests. She shakes her head, and goes over, remembering the familiar piano chords as she does.

“This is not real – this is not really happening,” she sings along.

“You bet your life it is!” he joins in. “See I remember it!”

It’s the kind of dumb dancing they’re not really drunk enough to excuse, but no one’s here to judge and it must have gotten dark at some point because the bar is gloomy, only lit by lamps. She kind of likes that. He spins her and she laughs.

She doesn’t realise until it starts that he must have cued up a second track.

“Oh,” she gasps quietly. She looks at Bill. He smiles at her, and she smiles back.

“Sorry for the mood change,” he says. “You wanna keep dancing?”

She half-looks around, not sure what she’s hoping to achieve. The guesthouse is quiet, the bar is empty, and no one’s told them to turn off the music yet. And it’s not that loud anyway.

She looks at him. “Yeah, why not.”

She wraps her arms around his neck, and he wraps his arms around her waist. His arms are strong. It’s strange being held by him, as an adult.

_Whenever I’m alone with you, you make me feel like I’m home again._

She rests her head against his chest. It’s comfortable. She’s had an emotionally exhausting and generally tiring day, and it’s nice to be here with him.

She looks up at him. He’s still handsome – maybe more so at this age, having matured into his looks. She liked his looks back then, too, though. “So…you put on our song,” she says, not looking away.

He smiles, looking at her, strangely wistful. Maybe it’s just the nostalgia of it all. “Yeah. Should I not have?” he asks slowly.

She doesn’t look away. “I don’t know. It’s nice to dance with you again.”

He beams at her. “Same to you.”

He’s watching her in a funny way. The drink is making her warm, and so are his eyes. She forgot how much she liked his eyes.

“What?” she giggles.

He flushes a little. “Nothing.”

“What?” she continues, coaxingly.

He looks at her in that strange way again. “I’ve really m-missed you, you know, Bev. I felt like it m-made sense with you. I wish we hadn’t –“

Her skin is goose-bumping. “Hadn’t what?”

“I don’t know. I w-wish w-we’d stayed in touch,” he says, sadly.

“Me too,” she says. “I missed you too, Bill.”

He moves his head slightly closer to hers. She shifts closer to him.

She blinks, feeling her eyes growing hot. “You were the kindest guy I ever dated. The best,” she whispers to him.

He moves closer to her. She moves closer too. She just wants to know if it would feel like it did. _Feels like I am home again._

He leans forward, and their foreheads are touching.

“I’m so sorry, B-bev,” he whispers. His lips are close enough that his breath tickles. They’re working their way towards each other slowly, eyelids heavy in the low light, swaying slowly to the music.

_I will always love you. _She feels him mouth the words more than she sees it. He brings a hand up to her cheek, very gently. This is it. Maybe this is what they need right now. She’s a split-second away from kissing him when she feels something cold and metallic on her cheek. On his hand. A ring.

He’s married. She _knows _he’s married.

She pulls back, and Bill lets her go, looking shocked. Although she also recognises the guilt in his expression, too.

“I thought…” he starts, and trails off.

She shakes her head, feeling incredibly stupid. How stupid do you have to be to get into this situation twice in the same day?

She takes a breath, braces her hands on her thighs for a moment, then straightens up. “That was…that was a really close call. I’m sorry, I, I can’t – you know this would be a terrible idea, don’t you?”

He doesn’t seem angry, just kind of bereft and lost. He touches his lips for a second, then replies. “I – I don’t know. It’s confusing – I w-wasn’t, I w-wasn’t trying to hurt you Bev, it just seemed like you w-wanted to – you _slow danced_ with me. You w-were talking about how I w-was –“ he trails off again.

She rubs her eyes with one hand. “I know, I’m – I shouldn’t have done that, I’m just – I’m a mess right now, and the drinking, and the music –“

“You’re not a m-mess –“ he cuts in, looking at her sadly. “I’m a m-mess, Bev – but – doesn’t this feel right? Th-that we’re here right now?”

“You’re married!” she says, exasperated.

He looks wounded. “Hey, so are you!”

“I know!” she retorts. “It’s not the same.”

He frowns. “Are you m-mad at m-me?”

“No, I –” she sighs. “I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at myself. I’m so sick of my own bullshit, I’m sick of my fucking patterns and how I think that I’m breaking them but I’m just falling into them again.”

He steps forward, tentatively. “What do you m-mean?”

She looks at him, at his concerned face, and looks away again. “I think – maybe subconsciously, or I don’t know – I’ve been kind of relying on this, because it’s easy to be around you and to flirt with you, and it won’t go anywhere anyway because you’re unavailable.”

He looks sadder at this. “I’m – th-things are kind of complicated with m-my wife, but I could be…available, if you w-wanted…”

She looks at him, seriously, and asks, “Do you love her? Because if you don’t you’re only being cruel by staying with her, Bill. I’ve wasted so much fucking time on a narcissist who doesn’t love me, or at least not in a way that is good. Don’t make her waste her time.”

He looks frustrated, raking a hand through his hair. It’s so familiar. He looks back at her. “Yes, I l-love her! But it’s n-not that s-simple, w-we don’t – “ he seems to struggle with finding the words. “W-we’re not in a g-good place, Bev, and I don’t know w-what to do –“

“Well, it’s not this. We can’t be each other’s way to escape our responsibilities, Bill,” she says, unhappily, walking closer to him.

“W-why not?” he asks, pained, looking at her with big, watery eyes. “W-we could be everything, Bev.”

She takes his hand, hoping he won’t misinterpret the gesture. She looks at him, and she feels teary. It really would be so easy to give in, but she knows it wouldn’t end well. “Because you love your wife, or you need to figure it out, and I’m – I’m trying to just get out of my situation and figure out who I am without it.” She sighs. “Being back here is terrifying sometimes, and I think we’re trying to hold onto our history because it was one of the only things that didn’t suck about being here, and it’s comforting. But I don’t think it’s the healthiest thing for us.” She squeezes his hand. “We already were everything, Bill.”

He starts to cry, and she can’t help but hug him. Maybe this isn’t ok – maybe it goes against everything she’s trying to do – but she knows she needs to hug him right now.

“Fuck, I’m s-such a m-mess Bev,” he says, in a small, choked voice. “I d-don’t know w-what I w-want.”

“Join the club,” she says, almost jokingly but she can’t quite manage it. “I wish I knew. I want to be a good friend. I want to be out of this marriage. I want to figure out who I want to be, or who I am – but, God, what kind of person does this twice in one day?” she says, with a burst of guilt and frustration.

“Twice?” Bill asks, confused, pulling back to look at her.

Her stomach twists with guilt. She hadn’t meant to say that. She looks at him, tired and regretful, and nods.

“But wh – “ he starts, and then tumbles to it surprisingly quickly. “Oh,” he says softly. “Ben?”

“Please don’t hate me,” she says guiltily. Her stomach is a knot of anxiety. “I wasn’t…trying to hurt you, or being casual with you, I was just – I don’t know, it’s hard to explain –”

He doesn’t pull out of the hug entirely though, and he cuts her off gently. “I could never hate y-you, Bev.”

Her anxiety lessens some.

“That’s w-why you needed a drink?” he continues. “W-what happened?”

She looks at him, exhausted by the thought of having to explain it again. “I kissed him. And I was sober, so I can’t even –” she cuts herself off, upset.

Bill lets her go, but slips his hand down to hold hers lightly.

“Do y-you have…f-feelings f-for him, then?” he asks, after a moment.

She looks at him, surprised. “I – I don’t know. Maybe. I haven’t seen him in so long it’s hard to figure out. He’s apparently… in love with me.”

He looks at her, and then away, and then back at her. Like he wants to ask something, but he’s hesitating.

She nods him on.

“Did y-you always?” he asks, not in angrily, but like he’s afraid of hearing the answer.

She keeps hold of his hand, holds it a little tighter. “No,” she tells him honestly. “I mean you know how we all are. We love each other so much as friends anyway…I don’t know when this started, but it wasn’t when we were together, ok?”

He looks reassured, and nods, letting out a relieved breath. When he looks at her, he smiles a little. “That’s not to s-say I’m jealous, or anything – w-we’d be a bad idea, I know… I’d be happy for y-you both, you’re still m-my friends.”

She smiles at him, even though she’s not feeling that happy. She’d forgotten how generous he could be. She really does love him, just not in the same way anymore.

“That’s really sweet, Bill, but I fucked it up already, so you don’t need to worry about it,” she says, miserably.

He sighs. “I’m s-sure he’ll forgive you for w-whatever you did. You’re p-pretty hard to stay m-mad at.”

She smiles a little. “Thanks. It’s not just that though… I don’t know what I want now. I’ve been married for so long, I don’t know who I’m gonna be when I get out of it. Seems kind of unfair to put that on him, even if he does forgive me.”

Bill nods. “I get that,” he says, and looks kind of wistful. “I feel like I got m-married relatively late. W-we’ve only been m-married s-six years. Together eight.” He pauses. “If I knew w-what I w-wanted…”

“There’s the problem,” Bev says, wryly.

“She’s a good p-person, you know?” he says, tiredly. “But w-we don’t get each other.”

He looks tired and wistful, looking around as he rubs the back of his neck with one hand. She smiles at him, understanding. “If I promise to not flirt with you, can we keep drinking? Entirely platonically?’

He chuckles, and looks back at her. “I – I w-would, but I think I need to s-sober up. Think about things. Clear m-my head. M-might take a w-walk.”

She half-laughs, surprised. “I think it’s dark out, Bill.”

He shrugs. “I’m not p-planning on going to the w-woods. Just taking a w-walk.”

She looks at him for a moment. “Are you gonna be ok?”

He smiles at her, warm if a little bittersweet. “Yeah. I w-will.”

***

Bill does take a walk. What he intends to be a short walk in the brisk air ends up taking him all the way into the main street of town, unsure what he’s looking for. The walk has sobered him up a little, but his head is spinning with thoughts.

He sees the sign for the bar across the street and thinks, fuck it. Sobering up hasn’t made his problems easier to deal with right now.

He’s not mad at her, because she’s allowed to not want to be with him. He’s just as confused as she is. He doesn’t even know if he truly, actually wanted to be with her or if he was doing exactly what she described. The rejection still stings a little, which is why he couldn’t keep drinking with her, but he does actually feel like he wants another.

He pushes the door open, grateful to be out of the cold, and orders a beer from the bartender.

He’s an old guy, and he squints at Bill as he hands him the bottle. “Ain’t you that guy – the writer guy, from here? Think I remember you when you were a kid.”

He nods, tries to not let his weariness show through too much. “That’s me.”

“_Love _those books,” the bartender continues.

“Thanks,” he says, politely. He really doesn’t want to talk about his books right now. He doesn’t want to be known. He just wants to drink anonymously in this small-town bar until everything in his head shuts up.

“Terrible fuckin’ endings though.”

_There it is._

“Thanks,” he repeats, dryly. “I’ll keep it m-mind.”

He looks around and is surprised to recognise someone in one of the booths at the back.

He grabs his beer, grateful to have an excuse to get away from the bartender, and walks over.

“M-mike?” he asks, surprise turning to unease when he properly sees him. “W-what are you doing here?”

Mike looks up from where he’d been moodily contemplating his glass, surprised for a moment. Then his face falls again. “Same thing you’re doing here?” he says, miserably.

“W-what –“ he starts, and then Mike gives him a look. “You w-want some company?”

Mike’s brown eyes are tired and pained, but Bill notices the gratitude in them at this. “Love some,” he says, nodding.

*

They don’t talk about anything important, at first, just stupid things. Books – not his – movies, music, pop culture.

It’s kind of calming, just to be able to talk about this stuff. But sooner or later, he’s going to have to ask anyway, so he does.

He takes a sip of his beer, then looks at Mike properly. “You ever g-going to tell me w-why you’re here, then?”

Mike raises an eyebrow. “Are you?”

He almost smiles. “Fair.” He sighs. “You don’t have to, I’m just w-worried about you. The l-last time I saw you, you w-were keen to go compare p-paint swatches with Stan, and then n-next thing, I see you here, drinking alone and looking like – ” 

He notices Mike frowns slightly more when he mentions Stan. “Did something happen between you two?”

Bill is startled by the short, tired laugh he gets in response.

Mike looks down at his drink, dejectedly. “We had a fight, I guess.”

“You guess?”

Mike looks at him. “Well, _a fight _makes it sound like it was both our fault, when really, Stan went off at me out of the blue and I just defended myself,” he says, in a bitter tone that Bill has almost never heard him use. He’s generally an optimist; the kind of person that takes every challenge and set back as an opportunity to learn and change. He doesn’t just give in like this.

“I’m really s-sorry to hear that,” Bill tells him, genuinely. “What was it about?”

Mike looks briefly uncertain, and uncomfortable. “It’s – fine. It’s not important.”

Bill is certain this isn’t true, but he lets it go for now. He’s not trying to pry. Stan and Mike were always close – for some reason or another, they were able to keep in touch long after everyone else had all but fallen out of contact with each other – and there are obviously parts of their friendship he doesn’t know about, issues that get stirred up by being here.

“W-Why’d he do it then? Do y-you have any idea?” he asks, genuinely confused.

Mike winces a little. “He and Richie got into it, because Richie was drunk and being an asshole, but you know, worse than usual.”

Bill’s unease and confusion grows. “Why was R-richie drunk?”

Mike looks at him in surprise. “Oh, right, I didn’t tell you yet.” He sighs. “Richie got into a huge fight with Eddie, and it was kind of a domino effect.”

Bill looks back at him, kind of horrified. “Fuck,” he says, with feeling. “I leave y-you guys for _one day_ to get some w-work done and y-you all have a collective b-breakdown.”

This startles a laugh out of Mike. “Yeah, it’s been a day,” he says, then looks back at Bill. “Wait, us all? Not Bev and Ben too?”

Bill nods solemnly. “Yep. Them too.”

Mike sighs heavily. “Fuck, I knew she sounded weird on the phone. I guess it really is collectively-lose-your-shit day today.”

“Well, we are l-losers, so,” Bill says, and it’s a weak joke but it startles another laugh out of Mike.

He smiles a little, too.

Mike’s face falls into concern. “I hope she’s ok. Maybe I should call her.”

“I w-was just talking w-with her, she’s b-back at the guesthouse. I think she’s ok for now, but m-maybe check in w-with her tomorrow?” Bill tries to reassure him.

Mike nods, and then looks at him curiously. “Is that where you came from? Talking with her about that?”

“Yes…” he replies, slowly.

“That why you’re here?” Mike asks, simply.

He almost laughs, caught in a surprised half-smile, looking back at Mike. He nods. “S-something like that.”

He takes a sip of his drink. There’s a pause.

“You still love her, then. Not just as a friend,” Mike says, concerned. “You still have…feelings –“

“No. Yes. I don’t know, Mike.” He sighs. “I don’t think so.”

Mike nods. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to…stress you out. I just worry about you guys.”

Bill shakes his head, and smiles at him. “Don’t w-worry about me, Mike. I’m alright.”

Mike smiles, back, tiredly. “Can’t help it. You worry about the people you care about.”

Bill looks at him with great affection. Mike’s eyes are still tired and hurt, but his smile is genuine.

“Are y-you ok, Mike?” he asks.

Mike looks almost surprised by the question. “I’m – I’m alright, man,” he says, and then looks away, down at his drink. “Or – I will be.”

The way he says it wrenches something in Bill. They’ve all been through enough trauma that none of them should ever have to be sad again, but he often thinks it’s especially true for Mike. Mike, who struggled to live here maybe more than any of them and who still ended up having to stay. He feels guilty about it, but also knows there was no way he could’ve helped, before his books started being published. By then, Mike had a life here.

“I’m so sorry, Mike,” he says, reaching across the table briefly to lay a comforting hand on Mike’s. He still remembers how open affection between men was looked at when he was growing up here, and it’s been a long time but he doesn’t know that it’s changed all that much. Fuck them, though. He’ll comfort his friend in public if he wants to.

Mike looks touched by the gesture. Not worried in the slightest about it. Bill supposes he’s been the poster child for _fuck you, I’m here and I’m not in hiding, _for a while. Maybe slightly more politely than that. “It’s not your fault.”

He looks at Mike, sympathetic. “I don’t want to p-pry, but…you really can’t tell me w-what you fought about? I just can’t imagine w-what Stan w-would say that w-would hurt you like this. I can’t imagine he’d ever w-want to.”

Mike looks at him strangely, and doesn’t answer for a moment. “I’d like to tell you, Bill. But I just – can’t, yet. Wouldn’t be fair to him.” 

“Y-you’re incredibly decent, M-Mike,” Bill says, looking at him.

“Always been my problem,” Mike says quietly, staring at his drink with a distant expression.

Bill looks down at his own drink. It’ll be empty soon.

“So, I t-think Ben actually t-told Bev he l-loves her,” he says, mainly to take the focus off Mike’s problems.

Mike looks up at him, surprised. “You know that?”

“That he told her?” Bill asks. “Or that he l-loves her?”

Mike nods once, on the second. Bill takes a sip of his beer. “It’s not like I didn’t have an idea. I recognised the way he used to look at her.”

Mike gives him a careful look. “So you’re…not happy about it?”

Bill shakes his head. “It’s b-been a long time since high school – I love her, b-but I also have a lot of love for him, y-you know. He’s – always – b-been such a good person. If anyone deserves to b-be happy together after everything, they definitely do. So no, I’m not m-mad if he wants to admit that to her. Or if she f-feels the same.”

Mike looks relieved at this. “Well, I know it was a long time ago, but I’m proud of you for getting to that point. Very mature.”

Bill smiles, feeling a little wistful. “Yep, th-that’s me. Mr Maturity.” He remembers trying to kiss her not that much earlier and feels guilty. Kind of undercuts your point about maturity and moving on from your high-school ex if she also just rejected your attempt to make a move on her.

They order two more drinks from a passing waitress. He sips the last of his beer. “I admit…I’ve b-been flirtier w-with her though, more than I should’ve b-been.”

Mike raises his eyebrows, clearly signalling _well I wasn’t going to say it but if you want to I’ll agree._

“I’m not trying to judge, I swear to God but…if you know that, why do it?” Mike asks, slowly.

Bill sighs, looking at his now-empty bottle. “Mike, I…” he tries, and trails off. “I’m sure I seem l-like an asshole, y’know. Coming here to support Stan and g-getting caught up with seeing B-bev again. W-while I have a w-wife back home.”

Mike shrugs. He drops his voice. “I don’t think you’re an asshole. We’re all…we’re all fucked up. What we went through, what you did in particular, and just…growing up here? It’s not surprising we all have issues.”

“That’s exactly it though,” Bill says slowly, like what he really wants to say is forcing its way out of his throat, and he’s wrestling it down. “S-she doesn’t –“

He pauses, gives Mike a somewhat-irritated look, because he can’t figure out what he’s trying to say and Mike’s not psychic, and can’t figure it out for him. It would be a lot easier if one or both of them were.

He takes a breath. “It’s hard having known y-you guys, b-because it m-means…no one else c-compares.”

Mike looks back at him, nodding and allowing him to keep expanding. “I know the feeling.”

Bill catches his eye for a moment, continues. “It’s n-not even their f-fault.” He winces, looking down. “She is… t-this beautiful, funny, smart p-person, and I can’t t-talk t-to her about…t-this.” He doesn’t use her name, paranoid that someone might hear it and his secret marital woes will end up in _Us Weekly _in the next few days. They still could, he supposes. He shouldn’t really be talking about it in public, but he can’t seem to stop.

When he looks up, Mike is giving him such a look of bittersweet care and sympathy that he feels his eyes water and he has to look away for a moment.

“Why can’t you?” he asks, with gentle but honest concern.

“B-because I just…_can’t, _Mike!“ he says, frustration trailing off weakly into nothing. “W-we don’t talk about our s-stuff. W-we don’t tell each other w-what w-we really think. For fuck’s s-sake, not a w-week ago I found out s-she also thinks my endings s-suck! Eight years together, and s-she couldn’t tell me that!”

Mike nods slowly. “I don’t think that’s what you’re mad about, though, Bill,” he says, quietly, looking at him.

Bill looks at him, feels his frustration residing. He shakes his head. “_Fuck, _Mike,” he says, soft and somehow, surprised. “You have this – way, of knowing what I mean before I get there.” He chuckles weakly. “Maybe you _are _psychic.”

Mike raises an eyebrow, and Bill remembers he wasn’t privy to that thought, because he isn’t actually psychic. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, with a quirk of his lips, barely a smile. “You’re right. I’m m-mad at m-myself. Because she d-deserves better, and I love her, but I d-don’t know if we’re even…a good f-fit. Like, as a couple.”

Mike looks surprised now.

“Oh s-shit,” he whispers. “I’ve n-never…s-said that before. Oh god.”

Bill’s mind reels, and he’s suddenly hot. Mike holds up a hand up facing him, like he’s trying to keep him calm.

“Hey, hey, it’s ok. You don’t have to make any big decisions tonight. But –“ he says, reassuringly, and then hesitates. He continues, serious like he has to say it now or he won’t. “I think it’s much healthier that you’re trying to be honest with yourself.” His expression clouds over, and Bill can’t imagine why anyone would hurt him. “It’s so hard ending any once-good thing permanently, but better in the long run to be honest about it. Saves you a lot of pain.”

Bill looks at him, searching, and wants to ask what happened, what could possibly have broken him up so badly. He goes to open his mouth – and the waitress interrupts with their drinks, and the moment is jostled away in the noise of the bar and the rustle of her apron.

***

Mike is drunker than he’d intended to be tonight, but fuck it, he’s not working tomorrow anyway. When he’d gotten here his only need had been to not be sober, but it’s a lot less bleak drinking with a friend than by yourself.

They’ve somehow ended up next to each other in the middle of the booth, even though they’d started facing each other at opposite ends.

They’re laughing about something dumb, leaning back into the cushions.

Bill looks at him sidelong. His eyes are still ridiculously blue, age hasn’t changed them so much. It’s comforting. Right now they look soft and concerned, even though he’s still smiling. “Wh-what happened, M-Mikey?” the drink as ever tripping up his already stutter-prone tongue.

Mike looks back at him, sadly, his own smile fading a little. “Bill, I…I’m ok. I’m an adult. I’ll get over it.”

Bill’s smile fades just as much, becomes somewhat melancholy. “C-can’t help b-but w-worry about the p-people you c-care about, M-mikey…” he says thickly.

Mike beams at him.

“Also b-being an adult s-sucks s-sometimes.”

Mike chuckles. “I fucking _know, _man. You think I enjoy being around teenagers all the damn time? I mean, I like teaching -but fucking _sometimes._”

Bill chuckles too. "Aw, M-mikey. You g-going in t-tomorrow?”

Mike shakes his head drunkenly against the seat. “Fuck no. Although I guess the reason I wanted to – not go, isn’t…” he trails off, and looks up, and blinks at the ceiling.

“M-mike, M-mikey, look at m-me,” Bill says, kindly. Mike looks at him.

Bill puts an awkward hand up to his face, a little unsteady, but gently. Whatever anxiety about male comfort and contact there is, they’re too drunk to care about it right now. “I’m s-sorry. You’ll m-make up.”

Mike looks at him, and how oddly close they are. They haven’t really been this close in decades. “Maybe I don’t want to right now,” he says, quietly.

Bill looks at him, still sad, but inclines his head slightly in what might pass for a nod. “Y-you d-don’t have to.”

Mike stares at him for a moment, and wishes for the millionth time he hadn’t let this friendship go. ell, it wasn’t totally his fault, he supposes. “Thanks for being here. I feel a lot better.”

Bill smiles, goofy and lopsided. “S’w-what I’m here f-for. M’glad.”

They stay like that until Mike’s phone goes off. It’s almost a shock, and he picks it up with a kind of smile that drops as soon as he sees who’s calling. _Stan. _He rejects the call, and when his screen goes back to the time, he sighs.

“W-who w-was it?” Bill asks, slowly. 

“No one,” he replies, and Bill probably knows but he doesn’t say anything.

He smiles at Bill. “I’m tired. I’ve had a pretty long fucking day, and I need to sleep off this oncoming hangover, so I gotta go home. Are you…staying here?”

Bill shakes his head. “I’ve h-had enough f-for tonight.” He smiles at Mike. “Y-you’re not too f-far f-from here are y-you?”

Mike nods. “You can crash at mine again, if you want. I know you walked here, but you’re probably too drunk to walk back.”

Bill smiles at him, that same goofy, smile. It’s very warming. “Thanks, M-mikey.”

It’s been nice to remember what an affectionate drunk Bill is, and always has been.

They walk back along the cold streets. It’s really only a ten-to-twelve-minute walk back to his building. Bill had clearly left the guesthouse in a bit of a weird state, because it’s definitely coat weather and all he has is his jacket. He keeps shivering. They walk as fast as their giddy drunken state will allow, arms around each other, laughing. If they’re attracting any attention Mike doesn’t care right now.

They stand outside the door to Mike’s apartment building.

The door is set onto the street, but all that can really be seen through the glass is the staircase up to the apartments.

He’s about to turn and put the code in for the door, when Bill shivers and sneezes, and he laughs at himself.

“Fuck, I’m c-_cold, _c-can we g-go inside?” he says, grinning.

“Oh I thought that was just your stutter,” Mike teases.

Bill colours, but he can’t help laughing. “Hey, fuck you.”

Maybe just because Bill’s shivering, and he’s drunk enough to forget that they’re not kids any more and they’re not tactile in the way they used to be. He puts both his hands on Bill’s arms to warm him.

Bill’s eyes widen, but he smiles in a slow, easy way. “Are y-you warming m-me up?”

Mike looks back at him and smiles, too. “Yep. Can’t have you freeze.”

Bill smiles back, drunk but seemingly much happier than when he’d first seen him tonight. “M-my face is c-cold too,” he half-whispers, not looking away.

Mike’s brain is foggy. He really hopes Sierra isn’t hiding in a bush somewhere, but it’s late-ish on a Sunday, so that’s unlikely. The thought of meeting her this drunk is a professional panic attack.

“Oh,” he says, softly. “I’ll..I’ll have to do something about that…” he says, and slowly leans down so his forehead is resting against Bill’s. Bill’s face _is _cold, he reasons. A friend needs help you help them.

Bill laughs lightly, breath misting and disappearing in the shared warmth between them. His breath smells like rum, which should be kind of gross, but it isn’t. Maybe he just got used to it in the bar. “T-thankyou,” he says, with a laugh in his voice.

“No problem,” he whispers, grinning. Some part of him is aware that this is taking too long, standing like this on the street, but it’s a distant thought. Up close, Bill’s eyes are crazy blue. They’re like entire swimming pools. Mediterranean oceans-blue, but lighter. Like the sea at Athens. He’s always wanted to go to Athens, but he’s never been able to. Bill is staring at him, almost in awe. “What?” he asks, barely speaking.

Bill smiles, a little sadly. “I’m sorry it took me s-so long to see you again, Mikey…I’ve really missed you…” he says softly. “W-well I s-see you now. You w-were always…I think you w-were always there.”

Mike’s heart thumps. “What are you saying?”

Bill looks at him, wistful. “You know. I loved Bev, but I always – had a thing about you. Just didn’t realise until way later.”

Mike’s head is spinning.

“God, Bill,” he says, softly incredulous. “I can’t believe you’re telling me this _now_. How could I not have…had that about you, too. It’s _you_.”

Bill’s magnificent eyes widen, and he closes the very small distance between them. It’s not a long kiss, but it feels like time stretches out during it, before they break apart.

Bill looks worried, and Mike thinks, through a haze of alcohol and the shock of the kiss ending abruptly, _here we go_. “It’s ok –” he starts.

“Was that…ok?” Bill stammers, looking at him. “We can just forget about it–“ he starts, apologetically, and Mike nods in surprise, smiling slowly.

“Do you want to?” he asks in a whisper. 

“No,” Bill whispers back. It comes out in mist.

“Ok,” Mike says, softly, and takes Bill’s face in his hands and kisses him. It’s longer this time, deeper. It’s a good kiss. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Mike thinks they should probably stop standing in front of the building, kissing. Fuck ‘em though. He’s too drunk to care what Derry thinks about him kissing a man in public.

Even if that man is a public figure, an uncomfortably correct voice says distantly through the drunk fog. A publicly married to a public figure kind of public figure. Mike pulls back a little, and sighs, resting his head against Bill’s. “Oh, man,” he says, tiredly.

Bill looks at him, surprised. “What – did I – “

Mike looks at Bill’s lips. It would be so easy to not listen to that little voice. He just wants this comfort, is that so bad? He just wants to feel comforted – _wanted_.

“You have _no idea _how much I want this right now, Bill,” he says, with a soft groan.

“But?” Bill asks, weakly.

He holds Bill’s gaze. “But you’re married, Bill. I don’t know if you want to be with her, but I just – I can’t be the person you cheat on your wife with, back in your hometown – you’re too important to me, man. I can’t destroy our friendship over a drunken hookup.” He sighs. “Despite literally everything else my body is telling me right now.”

Bill sighs, and it turns into a ragged half-laugh. He looks back at Mike, and those eyes should have some kind of intensity setting, because it is taking _so _much of his self-control not to say _fuck it _and keep kissing him. “W-what if – w-what if w-we’re…” Bill implores. “W-what if it’s not j-just a drunk thing?”

Mike looks at him kindly, still holding his face in his hands. “I think we’re both drunk and lonely and sad. But that doesn’t mean we should use each other.”

Bill sighs again and smiles crookedly.

“Damnit, M-mike. I kn-now you’re p-probably r-right, and I’d r-regret it, and I… n-need to figure m-my shit out…” He pauses. “But did you h-have to be s-such a g-good kisser?”

The cold and alcohol are rendering his stutter almost unintelligible, but Mike’s brain is attuned to it and he picks it up anyway.

Mike chuckles, softly. “It’s a burden.”

He lets Bill go, and pulls away from him fully.

Bill smiles ruefully. “I’m sorry, M-mikey.”

Mike shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. At least I can tick make out with sister’s ex-boyfriend off the ol’ bucket list now,” he says, attempting a weak joke.

Bill smiles, cringing. “Ah fuck. I’m s-such a m-mess.”

“No more than the rest of us,” Mike replies, smiling. He looks at the door. “You can still, um, stay if you want. On the couch,” he says, awkwardly half-laughing.

Bill shakes his head, half-smiling. “No, I think it’s b-better I g-go home.”

“Are you sure? You’re still shivering,” Mike asks. “Why didn’t you bring your coat?”

“I t-thought I w-was going for a s-short w-walk! I’ll be f-fine.”

Mike looks at him. “Well, text me when you get in. I mean it.”

Bill nods, and looks back at him. “W-will do.” He pauses. “Goodnight, M-mike.”

“Goodnight, Bill.” Mike replies, hesitates. “I still love you, you know that, man?”

Bill smiles, warm and little sad. “Y-yeah, I kn-know. I love y-you too.”

***

Eddie sits on his bed, in his crappy little guesthouse room, blankly watching TV.

Well, watching is probably too strong a word.

He’d spent over an hour driving around in a furious haze after the fight, seething and confused, before he’d almost gotten into an accident, and decided to return to the guesthouse.

He doesn’t know what he’s thinking. Driving around didn’t make it make sense, and sitting here staring at the TV, barely aware of what’s on hasn’t helped either.

Richie had been _so angry, _and he’d just blown up, and they’d always had dumb fights but this wasn’t like the others. The things Richie had fucking _said_. Like Eddie had punched him in the stomach and broken his glasses, looking at him like he used to look at the bullies who’d pull that shit with him.

His phone buzzes several times, and he sighs, and picks it up. Myra’s called a bunch, and she’s texted him even more.

He groans, but looks at them anyway. She won’t stop if he ignores them.

_1:42pm Please call me back I’m worried_

_1:58pm Eddie is your phone off?_

_2:07pm Are you getting my texts?_

_2:32pm Why are you ignoring my calls? _

He scrolls down a bit. A lot.

_6:23pm YOU KNOW THAT I WORRY ABOUT YOU WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME I’M GOING TO CALL THE POLICE AND SEE IF SOMETHING HAS HAPPENED TO YOU AS SOON AS I FIGURE OUT WHAT COUNTY TO CALL EDWARD _

Eddie looks at the time on his phone. _6:51pm. _“Fuck,” he says to himself.

He types out a text because he’s not sure he can talk to her without getting angry, and for once it’s not actually her he’s mad at.

_Sorry to worry you, Myra, my phone’s been on silent, I’ve been helping my friend go through his parents stuff_ _all day. I’m ok. Don’t worry. DON’T CALL THE POLICE. _

He sends the text and less than a minute later he receives a response. He groans, and picks up his phone again.

_You’ve made me very anxious Eddie I need you to come home, I’m a wreck, when are you coming back?_

Richie’s nasty jibe about “_Does Mommy-Bear need Eddie-Bear home again?” _rings in his ears, and makes him feel hot with shame and anger again. He punches out a terse reply – _I don’t know. Couple days. –_ and turns his phone off, throwing it down on the bed angrily.

How could Richie say that? Why would he say something like that? This wasn’t just him being an asshole, this wasn’t like all those fucking-your-mom jokes, it was _nasty. _Cruel. He wasn’t often cruel. And, Eddie thinks, he wasn’t joking. The meanest thing Eddie had previously ever heard him say was that Bill’s brother really was dead, when they’d been keeping up the idea that he was maybe still alive, just missing, for Bill’s sake. The circumstances then had already been pretty stressful and traumatic, it had been understandable that he’d snapped.

Richie had been looking out for him really, Eddie remembers with a pang. It had been right after he’d gone into Neibolt for the first time, and he’d fallen through the hole in the floor upstairs, running from Bob Gray. He’d broken his arm, and Ben had gotten slashed running in to help them.

Eddie shudders. Richie had been angry for them both, angry that Bill wanted to go back, angry that he’d put them all in danger looking for someone who was most likely long-dead. Richie had been the one to reset his injury, even though he was a child and Eddie still feels it twinge in the cold.

He could be so, so - caring, sometimes. That part of him hadn’t been there today. And there was no psychotic serial killer run-in to explain why he’d snap like that. It had just been so…_nothing_. It had been nothing. And then suddenly Richie had lost his goddamn mind.

Eddie shakes his head. He’s chasing the same wild thoughts as he has been all afternoon. He _is _married, that’s just a fact. Why is that crazy?

He needs to get the fuck out of this room. Maybe he’ll go for a jog.

He can’t be fucked to find his running clothes, though, so he settles on maybe going for another drive. It is dark and cold out, to be fair.

As he walks downstairs, he passes the room with the bar. One of the many things that makes this guesthouse slightly creepy - the bar barely ever seems staffed, and they seem to have like three staff members total.

Someone is still drinking at the bar, though. He knows that hair.

He doubles back to go in.

“Bev?” he asks.

She turns around, and smiles when she sees him. He’d guess she’s been here for a while. “Eddie! When did you get back?” she asks, warmly. She looks flushed.

She’s looking at him sympathetically. “Few hours ago,” he says slowly.

“Wanna sit with me?” she asks, patting the stool next to her. “I’ll make you a drink.”

He thinks about it, and realises that’s exactly what he wants to do. She always understood Richie better. Maybe she’ll understand.

He goes over and sits beside her.

“I can make you a rum and coke,” she says. “That’s the only mixer I found.”

“Is there even anyone here?” he asks, confused.

She shakes her head, hair falling over her face. “No. But I’ve put money there, so I figure we have a tab.” She looks at him. “So, your options are rum and coke, or straight shots of liquor, of which we have many.”

He’s not a big fan of rum and coke. He’s not a big fan of coke as a mixer generally. Reminds him a little too much of high school parties.

“Fuck it, give me the shots,” Eddie says grimly. “Vodka.”

She nods. “Bad day?” she asks, pouring the vodka into a shot glass that she’s snuck from over the bar. There’s something very knowing in her tone.

“You could say that,” he says, and downs the shot quickly, only coughing once. He hasn’t done shots since his twenties, Jesus.

She raises her eyebrows. “Ok, you wanna talk?”

He sighs. “I don’t know. Why are you here drinking alone?”

“I’m not alone, I’ve got a friend with me,” she says, with a grin. “Anyway, we’re talking about you. No judgement.” 

She’s avoiding the question, but he lets it go. “I’ve got the feeling you know something about it already.”

She gives him a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, I do. But how are you doing?”

“You talked to him, then?” he asks, and then has a horribly anxious thought. “Is he here right now?”

“I did, and I don’t think so. He went out and I haven’t seen him come back yet,” she says, calmly. He’s always been astounded by how calm she can seem while drunk. “He’s not important right now, how are you?”

Eddie doesn’t know how to answer at first. He looks around wordlessly. She waits.

“How am I?” he repeats. “Angry. Confused as fuck. Could we start with a less complicated question?”

She nods. “I’m sorry, Eddie.”

“Thanks,” he says, quietly. He waits for a moment, thinking. “I just – I don’t fucking know what _happened, _Bev. It was fine, and then it suddenly – wasn’t,” he bursts out. “Did he…did he explain why he flipped out on me?”

Bev gives him a sad look. There’s something careful about it. “I…” she starts off. “So, it started when you met Heather, and she mistook you for being married.”

Even at the mention of it, Eddie feels like an invisible hook has snagged on his stomach. “Yep.”

“... And?” Bev prompts.

Eddie shrugs, frowning. He waits a beat. “I didn’t even realise he was pissed until I asked him something and he stormed off,” he says quickly, frustrated.

Bev nods. He knows she’s waiting for him to say it.

He rolls his head around uncomfortably, and then looks down. “I might have said something about it being ridiculous, us being…” His stomach twists. “Look, it’s not like I fucking _meant…_”

He’s silent for a moment. Bev lets him catch up to his thoughts, and he appreciates it.

“I was just – surprised, you know,” he says, quieter. He’d like to think calmer too, but he knows that would be a lie. “I didn’t think he’d _freak out_ like that because I got surprised and said something like _that would be ridiculous_. I mean, I’ve said so much worse to him! He’s _absolutely _said worse to me!”

He looks at Bev, who is steepling her fingers together so the tips are just touching her lips. She looks like she’s trying to figure out what to say.

“What?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

She puts her hands down and looks at him seriously. “Alright, thought experiment.”

He looks at her, suspicious.

“Eddie, come on,” she says, giving him a look.

“Alright,” he huffs. “What do I have to do?”

“Just listen, ok?”

“Fine.”

Bev looks at him. “So, imagine we’re walking down the street today, and we bump into an old friend. Say, Carrie, or someone.”

Eddie nods, even though that would be deeply awkward. She’s probably over the weird way he broke up with her, the last summer before college, because it’s been _decades _but still. He’s glad he hasn’t managed to bump into her in town yet.

“Ok, but I don’t see –”

Bev holds up a hand. “Shh, you said you’d listen.”

He frowns, but stays quiet.

She keeps his gaze. “So, we’re all catching up, and Carrie sees our wedding rings and assumes we’re married. Would you tell Carrie that’s ridiculous?”

He rolls his eyes, but she keeps looking at him, matter-of-fact.

“No, I wouldn’t. I’d just tell her we weren’t married,” he says, and then starts again. “But you wouldn’t freak out about it if I had.”

“_I _wouldn’t,” Bev agrees, meaningfully. “Would you have – been caught off guard, if it wasn’t me, if it was one of the other guys? Bill or Stan or someone? Would you’ve said the same thing?”

He makes a dismissive noise. “I mean – I don’t know!” He shakes his head. “Probably not. But that’s not…” he breaks off, looking away. “What are you saying?”

“Nothing bad, Eddie,” she says reassuringly. “Just that you guys have always operated on your own level – you’ve always, consciously or not, pushed each other’s buttons in ways that didn’t work on the rest of us. You’ve always known each other better than anyone else.”

Eddie sighs. He flashes on Richie’s hurt face in the car, and his stomach twists again. “I’m gonna need more alcohol,” he mutters, and pours himself another shot. He downs it and winces. He twists around on his barstool, frowning.

“These seats are so uncomfortable. How have you even been sitting here so long?” Eddie grumbles. “There’s a whole couch over there.”

“Well, let’s go there then, grumpy,” Bev says, picking up her glass and getting off the stool fairly gracefully for someone who’s had more than one drink tonight.

He follows, nearly trips on the stool and swears. Bev doesn’t laugh, but he can’t see her face. He grabs the vodka and the shot glass, scowling.

There’s a low coffee table in front of the couch, which is in one corner of the room next to an old jukebox. Eddie plants the bottle and shot glass on the table and sinks heavily into the couch next to Bev.

She looks at him kindly. “Feeling better?”

He sighs. “Not really. But this couch is _way _more comfortable.”

She smiles. “Alright, Eddie.”

He lies back against the couch, and they sit in silence for a moment.

“He – he came out to me?” Eddie finds himself saying in a strange voice, one that goes up at the end and turns it into a question. “He said some really fucked-up things, Bev,” he says, horrified to feel his throat constricting, hearing it in his words.

“Aw, hon,” Bev says sadly, looking at him.

He looks away. Somehow looking at her is worse. “He said – he said I was like my mom. That I’d – that I’d – fuck, it’s all so – that I’d have a problem with him. Like how she felt about – ” his voice cuts out humiliatingly. He doesn’t usually _do _this. He doesn’t talk about his _feelings _with people – not at work, obviously, and definitely not with – well, he doesn’t do it. Because it’s not fun, it just makes him feel childish and out of control. “I’m not – I don’t have a problem with…” he tries, and cuts off again.

Bev lays a gentle hand on his arm, and he stiffens, not looking at her. She waits, until he can’t resist relaxing into the comfort. She moves her hand around to his shoulders, and he leans back into it.

He looks up at the ceiling. “How could he fucking…” he starts, angry, but quiet. “How could he say that to me, for fuck’s sake? He _hated _her. He hated me enough to _say that_?”

“Hon, he doesn’t hate you. He’s never in his life hated you,” she says softly. He sounds sad but knowing, like Cassandra, cursed with foresight that no-one would believe. He’d gone through an obsessive Greek mythology phase when he was younger. “He was lashing out. You know him.”

He sniffs. “I don’t even fucking know that I do. If you had seen his _face…” _

“I’m so sorry, Eddie. He was hurting.”

He can’t take it anymore, and he looks at her. His face feels hot. The shots are starting to hit him.

Bev looks at him sympathetically. She hasn’t asked for her arm back, which he appreciates. “The thing is…” he says, quietly, fiercely. “He fucking said he was tired of following me around, and it’s fucking crap. If anything, I was the one following him around like a fucking pet, y’know? He was the one coming up with stupid, fun shit to do and I was the one following, sometimes when I didn’t even fucking want to, because he was so…”

He looks away again. He sniffs once and coughs, then looks back at her. He’s suddenly light-headed, but not nauseous. “He was everything, you know? My best friend. I mean, it was hard to say that, because I kind of felt like all of you were my best friends in different ways. But y’know, it was _us. _Eddie-and-Richie. Best fucking friends…” he trails off again, and takes a breath. “When I realised I’d get to see him again – after all this time – it was like…I was kind of excited, and kind of worried it wouldn’t be the same. Like it’d been too much time. But it was –“ Eddie’s breath hitches in a way he truly hates, and he looks away. “It was just like old times, like we’d never stopped hanging out, like we were 9, 15, 18 again. So, I thought we were fine.” He looks back at her, feeling his anger reigniting. “I might have _unintentionally_ hurt him, but he fucking _meant _to hurt me, Bev. I don’t care that he was hurt, what he said was just fucking…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, fuming, blinking.

“Aw, hon,” Bev says softly. She pulls him closer, and he rests his head next to hers, against the couch.

“I don’t think being hurt is an excuse, either,” she says quietly. “I’ve known too many people who’ve used that – the idea that you’ve somehow hurt them, whether it’s fair or not – to justify hurting you back, worse.”

There’s a beat of silence. Eddie hasn’t really thought about her dad in a long time – he’d never really met him, but he knew a bit about what he was like. What he’d done. He hates the shake in her voice. He hates the people who put it there.

“But…” she continues, carefully. “And I’m not saying, just up and forgive him before he apologises, but you guys…you guys have so much – you care about each other _so much_. That’s why this hurts like it does. And I _know _he’s beating himself up about it. He’ll apologise, and it’ll be a good one.”

Eddie makes a _pfft _sound that reminds him of Richie, and it hurts. When he speaks, it’s weedier, more hurt than he’d like. “If he’s so cut up, if he’s so sorry, where is he?”

Bev sighs. “You gotta give him time, Eddie. He got hurt too, even if you didn’t mean it.”

Eddie goes quiet. He replays Richie’s face asking _why would it be so ridiculous? _

He really was hurt. Eddie is still furious with him, but he can’t help feeling his internal organs twist themselves into painful knots, thinking about that look. About causing that hurt. He wasn’t trying to–

But he did.

He wants another drink, even though straight vodka is awful and he’s not twenty anymore. But he also doesn’t want to get up. Bev smells nice. Myra doesn’t wear perfume like this – he used to think he was allergic to hers, but then whatever reaction he’d been having to it went away. He doesn’t sit like this with her. He can’t imagine it.

“If it’ll make you feel better, I can tell you how badly I fucked up today?” Bev says tiredly.

“Doubt anything will, but sure,” he replies, almost processing too slow to respond properly. “Sorry to hear it though.”

“Thanks. It’s kind of par for the course with me, I think,” Bev replies. She really sounds worn out, bitter. He can’t blame her; it’s exactly how he feels.

She sighs. “So I kissed Ben. And then I freaked out and ran away. And then I was so fucked up about it I almost – almost kissed Bill, just before. And I think I just did it – _almost _\- because Bill’s not available like Ben is. And the way Ben looked at me, I can’t get it out of my head – ” she pauses. “So believe me, I understand how it feels to fuck up and really hurt someone you – “ she pauses a second, and he sees her eyes flick to him and away. “Someone you care a lot about.”

He breathes out. Horribly, he feels – well, if not _better, _slightly vindicated that he’s not the only one to hurt a friend today. Misery loves company. “That’s why the drinking alone?”

“Yep.”

“Ah,” Eddie replies. “I’m sorry. That really sucks.”

“Thanks,” Bev replies quietly. “It really does.”

Eddie waits a moment. “Does Ben know why you ran away?” he asks, tentatively. “Do you?”

She sighs again, shakier this time. “I do. And I tried – I tried to tell him. I tried, but I think I wasn’t being honest with him. With myself,” she says, and sniffs. “You want another drink? I need another.”

“Yeah, fuck it. I don’t have work in the morning,” he replies.

She sits up and pours herself a shot of vodka into her empty glass, then pours one for him. She raises it and toasts him, without clinking glasses, and then throws it back when he does. He winces. When he opens his eyes again, he sees her wincing too.

“Agh, I forgot how terrible shots are, how have you had like three already?” she says, hoarsely.

“Pure determination,” he explains grimly. She smiles.

They sit back against the couch.

Bev sighs again, heavily. “I wasn’t being honest with myself, so I couldn’t be honest with him.”

“What weren’t you being honest about?” Eddie looks at her. She looks like she’s struggling to explain it.

She looks at him sadly, something on the edge of anger in her expression. “I told him that it was because he loved an idea of me, and that he didn’t really want me.”

Eddie’s face must betray some kind of concern over this, because she says, “I know. I’m a terrible fucking person.” She sniffs.

“No, you’re not, ok?” he replies. “Clearly, none of us are perfect. We all fuck up from time to time.”

She smiles weakly at him. “You’re sweet.” She shakes her head. “I was wrong though – it’s not like I was lying to him. I didn’t think I was.”

Eddie feels this tug on his gut, different to just feeling bad for her. He ignores it to keep listening to her. “So what was the truth?”

She looks over at the bar, and then back at him.

“I just – I was really scared. For about a second I thought, this could be something. It felt like…fate, how dumb is that?” she says, and shakes her head.

_Not as dumb as you think_, he thinks. He can’t say it.

“Not dumb,” he says, instead.

She looks at him, gratefully, still sad. “I was so scared in that moment, Eddie. Scared to try and live up to who he was in love with, I come with a lot of flaws, y’know? I was scared – of my goddamn dad. Scared that – scared that he and Tom were fucking – right, about me –” the rest of her sentence is swallowed up in a sob, and she starts to cry.

He lets her cry into his shoulder, and hugs her like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Myra would have a fucking coronary if she knew he was comforting a beautiful redhead in a bar (or close enough), but she’s not here. Maybe he doesn’t care what she would think, because all that matters right now is that he’s comforting his friend.

He feels a familiar icy tendril of fear and humiliation curling up from his gut, the same kind he’d felt during his fight with Richie, the same kind that he felt a long time ago. They used to talk about their parents, when they were younger, when it was just them. It was one of the reasons he liked her so much – all of their friends were great, there were all kinds of reasons Eddie liked hanging out with any one of them – but she understood his relationship with his Mom without him having to explain or defend it. She got it. It made him feel a little bit less alone.

He lets her go, and she wipes her eyes. Eddie looks at her, scared for her for the first time in a long time. “Tom’s your husband, right?”

She grimaces. “Not for much longer.”

“Good,” he says, shortly. He looks at her. “Bev, they weren’t right. Aren’t right. You can’t think that – whatever shit they told you, how fucking…small they made you feel, they weren’t right. And Ben – Ben’s the last person in the world to care about that.”

She sniffs, and her eyes fill up again. One of the brimming tears falls from her eye and rolls silently down her cheek. “I don’t know. I _want _to not believe it, but it’s been in my head for so long.”

He gulps, and puts his hand on hers for a moment. He doesn’t have to say it, but she understands.

He throws his head back. “Fuck. OK, I didn’t tell you this because honestly I still don’t know how to fucking process it but Richie said something during our argument that is still going around my head, and I feel like you might be the only person I want to talk to about it.”

She looks at him, a little surprised. “Alright, I’m listening.”

He looks up at the ceiling. Is that mould? It was just be fucking typical of Derry to give him a final gut punch by causing him to inhale mould spores and either die or having respiratory problems for the rest of his life, he might need to talk to the manager if she’s ever fucking around –

“Eddie?” Bev prompts.

“Right,” he says. “Richie said – he said I married my fucking Mom.”

Bev lets out a slow breath. “Oh honey, I’m – I’m sorry he said that. That’s not fair at all.”

He shrugs. He looks at her. “The thing I’m _terrified _of is…what if he’s right? He fucking – he was always _scary good _at that when he wanted to be.”

Bev looks almost – afraid. Maybe for him. “First of all, I don’t think you should take anything he said in a rage as gospel. Even though, I know, I’m living proof of how hard it is _not _to do that,” she says carefully, looking at him. “I’ve never met your wife, so I wouldn’t know but…do you think there’s anything to it?”

His mouth goes dry, and he looks around. He can’t tell if he wants to be drunker or to throw up, but he’s really hoping it’s not the latter. “I –“ he starts, before his voice cuts out. His throat is closing up again.

Bev looks worried. “Eddie, I’m sorry, take a breath. It’s alright.”

“I’m not in love with her!” he bursts out, and _fuck _he really just said that out loud. “Fuck, God, I’m not sure I’ve ever been? And we’ve been married _nine years_, Jesus _fucking _Christ, Bev, oh my God, what am I –”

It’s times like this he’d really appreciate having his inhaler on hand, because he might not be asthmatic but he’s definitely having a panic attack. He’d brought one from New York – he relies on it sporadically, old habits die hard – but he hadn’t even unpacked it in the time he’d been here.

Bev grabs his face, steadily but not harshly, and forces him to look at her. “Take a breath.”

He doesn’t try to say anything, but he takes a breath. It does actually make him feel better.

“Feel better?” she says, gently.

He inclines his head slightly.

She looks at him affectionately, then lets him go. He takes another breath.

“Shit, Bev,” he says, slower. “She does – she likes to take care of me –“

Bev’s expression goes a little hard around her eyes, even though she still looks sympathetic. He recognises that look. She used to look like that when he talked about his Mom, and the way she _took care_ of him.

He puts his head in his hands and rubs his eyes, and then looks up again. “I know how it sounds, but…I think she really does think she’s helping me? But she’s just – she’s so anxious, all the goddamn time. She stresses about everything. She calls me _all_ the time. I find myself staying at work longer so I don’t have to deal with it, because she stresses about my health, and whether I should fucking – drive, and the idea of me flying places, and basically anything, if I’m not in the room with her. I always feel so fucking _guilty, _because she gets so upset whenever I try to talk to her about it. It stresses me out and I feel so fucking _trapped_, and I can’t believe I haven’t said this out loud before, Christ.”

He takes another breath, and looks at Bev. “What do you think?”

She looks upset for him, and the hardness in her eyes hasn’t gone away. “Do you really wanna know?” she replies, not unkindly.

“Yes,” he says, seriously.

She looks away, and then back. “I think…I don’t know her, but it sounds awfully familiar to me. You sounded a lot like this when you started realising how much you wanted to leave home. You weren’t happy then, and you don’t sound happy now.”

“Who says I’m not –“ he starts, nonsensically indignant, but she shuts him down with a look.

“Ok, you’re right, I’m not happy,” he admits, tiredly. “But I thought that was just a part of it – life’s a bit fucking disappointing when you’re not a kid anymore, you work long hours at a job, and marriage is hard but you keep working at it. You just – learn to live with what you’ve got, because it could be worse. You could be fucking – alone, and middle-aged.”

Bev looks at him, almost indignant herself. “Maybe that would be better, Eddie!” she implores. “If I know anything, it’s that I wish I’d figured out way earlier that it’s better to be alone than to be with certain people.”

Her eyes are red-rimmed. He sniffs, and takes her hand. One thing he can’t get over since he’s been here is how easy it is to be casually affectionate with these people. He can’t quite believe he ever forgot that it was like that with them. “I know, Bev. I’m sorry.”

She smiles at him, just slightly. Her eyes are still sad. “So leave her. If she’s that anxious in your relationship, she’s probably not happy either. It’s a toxic death grip you’re both in, and believe me, I know about those.”

He thinks about it. He’s never thought of her as a particularly happy person, but the idea that there is a version of her without him, that could be, is a strange one. He doesn’t know whether to feel happy or sad about it.

“I can’t just –“ he starts. “I can’t just leave her. It’s not that simple.”

Bev sighs, and then reaches over unexpectedly to grab his other hand. She pulls both of their hands in front of them, and stares at him something fierce. “Eddie, if you’re feeling trapped it is really that simple. I wasted _so much _time with a fucking – _terrible _man – who hurt me in so many ways, and I spent so much of it thinking I couldn’t leave. I thought, well better the scraps of time when he’s not being a total monster than being alone. But they got less and less, until they disappeared –“ her breath hitches. “And it took me till this week to realise it, but I’m not fucking alone. And neither are you, Eddie.”

He tries to swallow, and ends up letting out a sob, and then he breaks entirely. He hasn’t cried, properly, in a long time. He hasn’t been comforted like this in years, the way Bev is hugging him tightly.

Pulling away from her, he says quietly, “I’m sorry your husband abused you. You didn’t ever deserve it,” and means it with every fibre of his being.

She sniffs, and looks at him with such deep caring he almost wants to look away. “Neither did you, Eddie.”

He sniffs, and then understands what she means. “No, I mean, it wasn’t as bad as what you’ve been through. It was just run-of-the-mill unhappy.”

She gives him a soft, sad look. “Honey, I get it. But it’s not, like, an Olympics of suffering. My pain doesn’t invalidate yours. It’s all… different facets of abuse. And it sounds like she’s been emotionally abusive and manipulative for a number of years. She might not have been giving you…fake pills, but still sounds like she wants you to be dependent on her and only her. Doesn’t sound like it matters what you want,” she says gently, and pauses. “Like your Mom.”

He feels fingers of ice clawing at his stomach again. “I know she was bad,” he says, tightly. “But it wasn’t like –“

“Like my dad?” Bev gets there before he’s even understood what he’s trying to say. She tears up, but none fall yet. “Eddie,” she says desperately, and clasps one of his hands again, staring at him, unbearably sad. For him or for her, maybe it’s the same at this point. “Maybe she wasn’t on the extreme end of things, like mine. You were able to stay with her till you were old enough to leave. I guess you kept up a relationship with her, and I know it’s hard to think about now that she’s gone, so I hope you’ll forgive me,” she pauses for a moment. “But she hurt you too, Eddie. She made you think you were fragile, and small, and that you wouldn’t survive without her, which was so much bullshit, because you were so strong! She made you think you were sick, Eddie, for fuck’s sake! There’s a name for that. And it’s definitely child abuse.”

He blinks, looking down. “It wasn’t that – _bad_, Bev. I looked it up. Munchausen by proxy, but it was mild at best. It’s not like – there have been cases where people poisoned their kids with rat poison, and shit, made them think they couldn’t walk, that they had cancer. And she calmed down after what happened.”

“Why do you think, Eddie?” Bev says, exhaustedly.

He looks at her, confused. A flash of memory intrudes. Her at his window, thirteen and grinning. _Richie and I have a plan. _“What do you mean?”

She looks at him. “You remember how freaked out she was, after what happened? With any other parent – save mine, I guess – that was understandable, but Richie and I knew she’d use it to sequester you in that house. We knew – I knew – that it would be very bad for you if she was allowed to do that. She might never have let you come back to school, and you would’ve been miserable. Not just that, you could have been in danger.”

He nods slowly. “I was fucking miserable. Not seeing any of you after what we – what we went through.”

She sniffs. “You remember when she let you see us again?”

He looks at her funny. “You had a plan…but you never told me what you did.”

She nods. “Richie and I knew she got prescriptions for the inhaler, and that Mr Keene didn’t care if he was selling you fake pills, because she was happy to pay for them. So, we managed to get hold of proof of the prescription, and one of your old pill bottles that you left at Richie’s. We caught your Mom leaving the house, and we told her if she didn’t let you see us again and come back to school, we’d tell Doctor Grayson she was making up your history of illness, and he’d report her to the police. Possibly child services.”

“Pretty big risk there,” Eddie says, still kind of trying to wrap his head around it. “What if she’d called your bluff?”

Bev looks at him, a flicker of steel in her eyes. “We weren’t bluffing. Of course we wanted you to stay with us, but if it got you out of there, we would’ve given you up. Richie was clear on that.”

His stomach twists again, and he thinks for a moment he’s going to be sick. He isn’t. “Of course Richie wanted to do it. He got to tell my mom off.”

“He wanted to do it because he would rather you were somewhere else and happy, than close by and miserable,” Bev responds, quicker than a shot.

He blinks and looks around. He looks back at her. “So what happened?”

“Well, we were reasonably certain she wouldn’t call us on it, anyway. The threat of losing you was too real. We definitely spooked her, because she loosened her grip. Although, I’m sure you remember she hated us with a deep passion the rest of the time we were here.”

He’s quiet, trying to process it. She _had _seemed angry to let him out of his imposed house-arrest, and he’d always thought it was weird that she was letting him if she was so mad about it.

She looks at him anxiously. “Are you mad?”

He looks up, trying not to cry. He’s not even sure if he’ll be able to talk much longer. “I knew you did something, but I never – I fucking can’t believe you did that.”

Bev looks even more anxious.

“You guys did that for me, you really – you were really the best people I had in my life. Well, you two. Apparently, the others could have taken or left me,” he says, with a wonky, but genuine smile.

She returns it, as much as she can, mostly seeming deeply relieved. “They wanted to help, but we decided it would be just us. Richie wouldn’t let it go ahead without him.”

That twisting feeling again. Half of him is still hurt, but half of him wants to just be able to forget this whole stupid fight. He fucking _misses _Richie, which is ridiculous, but he’s drunk enough to admit it to himself.

He sighs. “I – now I don’t know what to think…is it fucked up that I still wanted to have a good relationship with her, for so long? Or if not good, something near it. That’s why – that’s fucking why I got her to move to upstate New York.”

She takes his hand, squeezes it. “It’s not. It’s human nature to try and look for the best parts of a person, the good memories, even when the bad stuff easily outweighs it.” She looks down. “I did it for years with Tom. He didn’t start out awful, I loved him at first –“ she sniffs, and her eyes water. “I just – ignored a lot of warning signs, and then it was too late.” Silent tears roll slowly down her cheeks.

He shakes his head, suddenly feeling a wave of sadness that threatens to send him over the edge again. “Myra – has good qualities, but I think it’s our fucked-up relationship that twists anything that is or was good about us into a – fucking, funhouse mirror version of it.” He looks around. “I met her a few months after my mom died, just before I turned thirty. She was – nice. She was a secretary at work, and she was – kind to me, and it just – I hadn’t felt looked after in a long time. We knew each other for while at work before it, and we were friendly, and then it…progressed.” He realises as soon as he says it that it sounds like he’s talking about a cancer diagnosis and not what was supposed to be the happy start of a relationship, but fuck it, he’s here now. “I was just tired, you know? I gave in. I didn’t want to be alone. I missed my mom, as much as she drove me crazy, as fucked up as it is, I didn’t like being an orphan. I missed you guys. I just needed – someone.”

Bev keeps hold of his hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Eddie.”

He looks at her, blinking tears away again. “You don’t have to be. I got busy too.”

He lies back against the couch, and she follows suit.

“So I did then,” he says, bitterly. “I did basically marry my mom.”

She keeps holding his hand. “Well, I realised way too late that I ran so far away from my dad I ended up marrying him, so. I get it,” she says, tightly.

There are a few moments of silence, and he doesn’t let go of her hand.

“Why –” he starts, and almost chokes on the word. “Why do you think…” he pushes out. His eyes actually hurt. He wants to lie down. In the dark. He really would like to be unconscious.

She sniffs, and says in a small, pained voice. “I don’t want to speak for you, but…I read this book, I think it was just after college, and I always remembered this one bit from it. The main character asks someone why his sister stays with her abusive boyfriend, and they tell him…” she pauses, sniffs. “_We accept the love we think we think we deserve_’. I never forgot it.”

That proves to be the thing that tips him over the edge, and he finds himself crying. She’s crying too, and he wraps an arm around her and lets her lie on his collarbone.

“I’m sorry anyone ever made you feel like you didn’t deserve to be treated well,” he says shakily, after a while, very quiet.

“Same to you,” she says, not moving from his collarbone. “You deserve so much happiness Eddie. You deserve everything you want.”

He takes a long, steadying breath. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”

She lets out a wispy _ha _that he feels against his chest.

“And same to you, Bev. Everything. Even Ben. Especially Ben. He’ll forgive you, I know it. You just gotta figure out what it is.”

Bev nods against his chest. “I know. Never easy, but I think I might know.”

There’s another easy silence.

“I think I have to forgive Richie,” he says suddenly, surprising himself.

She sits up. “Really? I mean, that’s amazing, but when did you get there?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I was so mad at him. I’m still mad at him. But – you reminded me that he –” Eddie can’t quite find the words. How to explain re-remembering the best parts of being Richie Tozier’s friend? “He’s always gone to the mat for me. I can’t – I can’t lose him, over something like this.”

Bev looks sympathetic, and nods. “I’m really glad you said that.”

There’s a noise in the hall. A voice, maybe.

He looks at Bev, and she shrugs. “Maybe it’s the night shift concierge.”

“Or the mysterious bartender?”

***

“Mike’s still not picking up,” Stan says morosely, looking up from his phone. “Not that I blame him.”

They’re still sitting on the couch, half-watching TV, and mostly avoiding going out. It’s been a long couple of hours.

Richie looks over at him. “Maybe his phone’s off?” he tries.

“It’s not,” Stan says flatly. “But thanks for trying.”

Richie shrugs well-meaningly.

There’s a moment of silence where they just watch TV. Stan’s not even sure what they’re watching, something with cops or whatever, but he’s not really paying attention.

“What if you went over?” Richie says suddenly.

“What?” Stan asks.

Richie looks at him, and Stan doesn’t like the look in his eyes. It’s his Plan look, and it was the source of a lot of his childhood anxiety. 

“Think about it. He’s probably at home, by himself, feeling pretty miserable. Probably crying into a glass of red wine, watching Bridget Jones –“ Richie starts.

“Ok, yeah, I get it –“ Stan retorts. “Bridget Jones?”

Richie nods. “I slept on his couch, you think I didn’t take the opportunity to go through his DVD collection? Your guy has a thing for romcoms, apparently –”

Stan groans, and closes his eyes for a moment. “Don’t call him _my guy, _Richie –”

“Ok, ok,” Richie says, putting his hands up. “Getting off the point. He’s at home, and he might be ignoring your calls but it’s a lot harder to ignore someone in person.”

“Unfortunately, I know this from the personal experience of being your friend,” Stan snarks.

“Hey!” Richie protests.

Stan smiles apologetically. “Sorry, uncalled for. Go on.”

Richie sighs dramatically, but continues. “Ok, before I was RUDELY INTERRUPTED, I was saying, you should go to his apartment. Try and apologise to him. I’m sure he’ll at least hear what you have to say.”

Stan looks at him, worried. “Rich, I’m not sure he wants to see me…”

“Worked on you didn’t it?” Richie points out, and Stan has to concede the point. Then he feels both miserable and guilty – because as much as he’s not paying attention to the show, sitting here with Richie has been really nice, and he’s missed it. Specifically, the hanging out with Richie part. But he has a flash of what could happen if he does go apologise, if Mike actually forgives him: they could be watching Netflix on his old comfy couch and hanging out comfortably again. He suddenly wants that so bad his chest hurts.

He thinks about it. “Fuck, I’m gonna go, aren’t I?”

“Fuck yeah you are!” Richie says, grinning. “Let’s go get your –”

“Richie!”

“_Our _friend, I was going to say our friend,” Richie protests, still grinning.

Stan looks at him. “You said _your_.”

“Whatever,” Richie waves a hand. “I’ll come with you, and wait in the car.”

Stan is surprised. “You wanna come? You don’t have to.”

“But I want to, ya dingus,” Richie says, rolling his eyes. Stan smiles despite himself.

“I’ll be your getaway driver. You’ll have to text me if you think you’re…not coming back down –” Richie cackles, a sound cut off by Stan throwing a cushion at his face.

Richie nods. “Ok, deserved. But I will wait for you.”

“Thank you,” Stan says, and smiles.

“Are we going then?” Richie says, getting up, and offering a hand to Stan. He takes it.

“Ok Richie. Let’s go.”

*

It’s cold out – enough to mist up the windows on Stan’s car. They’re looking for a spot to park on the street next to Mike’s building that won’t mean he has to walk several blocks in the cold night air.

“Richie, stop fiddling with the radio, fuck’s sake!” Stan scolds, still looking for a spot.

“Someone’s _nervous_,” Richie teases.

Stan scowls. “Of course I’m fucking nervous. This is ridiculous, we’re not going to find – “

“There!” Richie says, pointing out a space they’d overlooked.

“Fucking genius!” Stan says, grinning. “I forgive you for everything.”

“You already did that, Stanislaus,” Richie snarks.

The spot is surprisingly good – only a little bit up the street from the front door of the building. He’s barely going to have to walk at all.

He looks at Richie. “I can do this, right?”

Richie smiles. There’s almost nothing teasing in it, and it bolsters him. “You can do this. You’re Stan the Man. Do you need my bravery speech again?”

Stan grins. “No, that’s alright.” He takes a breath. “Ok, I can do this.”

He’s about to step out of the car, when he sees something ahead of them.

“Oh, isn’t that Mike?” he says to Richie, suddenly unsure whether to get out. He’s with someone. The way they’re holding each other up, friendly, comfortably close can only be –

Richie squints ahead. “Who’s he with? Is that Bill?”

“Are they drunk?” Stan asks, squinting at them.

Richie nods. “Certainly looks like it.”

Stan chuckles. “So much for taking today to really finish the script. Writers.”

Richie laughs. “Well I can’t judge, the drinking phase is an important phase of the creative process. Some say the most…”

He trails off.

“Why doesn’t Bill have a coat?” Stan asks, smile fading slightly. It doesn’t feel quite as funny the longer they spy on their friends.

“Fucking typical, probably left without thinking about it, classic Bill…” Richie says, and then trails off.

Mike’s holding Bill’s arms, and it’s fine but it’s so – comfortable.

“Wow they’re really drunk, if they’re –” Richie half-jokes, but his voice sounds weird too. “Almost looks like they’re – _oh. Fuck. Jesus, oh my fucking God, Stan, are you seeing –”_

Stan can feel Richie looking at him but he can’t look away. They’re not just drunkenly holding each other, they’re actually kissing. He watches it happen, confusion and something icy scraping fingernails into his gut. It’s a brief kiss, but it’s unmistakable. Stan wonders whether to look away now that they’re not kissing. It feels deeply wrong to be witnessing this, and yet he’s frozen. It’s like a horror movie. They start kissing again, and even at this distance he can tell it’s more intense than the first.

“So I’m thinking maybe I didn’t make the best call –” Richie half-whispers.

“Oh, you think?” Stan snaps, and then he sees how guilty and worried Richie looks. And kind of stunned. Maybe they both are.

“I’m sorry,” he says, feeling ashamed, breathing hard. “This was just such a mistake. Fuck, this is so _embarrassing_, Richie. I should have just let him have his space.”

“I’ve done way more embarrassing things, man. They didn’t even see you. They never need to know we were here,” Richie says, jovially. He still looks surprised. “Let’s just get out of here.”

“They’ll see us if we go! They know my car!” he hisses at Richie.

Richie gives him a look. “Oh, you want to stay here and freeze to death when your car dies? I’m not being an asshole, I swear, but I think they’re a little preoccupied –”

Stan winces. “Fine. Let’s just go back home and forget this ever happened.” He looks at Richie. “Unless you want me to drop you back at the guesthouse?”

It’s Richie’s turn to wince. “I can crash with you, if you want. Promise not to fall asleep in your bed.”

Stan nods, even though the memory makes his stomach twist painfully. “Sold.”

They drive in silence for a moment, which is uncomfortable in and of itself. Richie doesn’t allow it for long.

“You know that’s not who I was betting Bill was going to cheat on his wife with this week, I’m gonna have to call my bookie –” Richie babbles.

“Richie, fuck’s _sake,_” Stan retorts, tiredly.

“Sorry, man,” he falters.

Then he pipes up, in an even more uncomfortably sincere tone, “Do you want to like, I don’t know, talk about it?”

Stan groans. He’s starting to feel like a headache is coming on. “They’re adults Rich,” he says shortly. “It doesn’t concern me what they do when I shouldn’t have even been there.”

Stan can _feel _Richie dying to say something snarky to this, but he doesn’t. Even more unfortunately, he continues, “Yeah, man, but if I saw Bill making out with…” he trails off, and Stan frowns. “Are you…you know, fucking, ok? I’d get it if you weren’t.”

Stan keeps his eyes on the road ahead. “Fuckin’ dandy, Richie,” he says.

He can feel Richie’s side-eye, but he doesn’t comment.

***

“Hello?” comes a voice from the lobby. “Is anyone here?”

Bev looks at Eddie. She’s definitely drunker than she likes to be when meeting strangers, and he doesn’t seem much better, but the person is clearly looking for some help.

“Should we go out?” she whispers.

Eddie shrugs, cheeks flushed. “I don’t know.”

“Hello?” The voice is more annoyed this time.

Bev nods. “Come on, let’s try and help!” she whispers fiercely.

Eddie frowns. “I’m too drunk! I can’t help someone like this!”

Bev waves a hand dismissively, and gets to her feet. She pulls him up, and despite his protests, he follows her out of the bar and into the lobby.

A pretty, petite woman stands there, looking annoyed. Her suitcase is designer, but not ostentatiously so.

She looks relieved when she sees them. “Do you work here, by any chance?” she asks, sounding tired.

Eddie doesn’t reply, so Bev says, “Oh no, sorry…we’re, uh, guests.”

The woman smiles in a very familiar way, and says apologetically, “Oh I’m so sorry, I’m just so tired. I’ve been travelling all day and I really just want to take a shower because I’m sure I look super gross, and sleep, and apparently this is the closest accommodation in town for miles, and I’m just – I just _need _to check in.”

The woman is pretty well put together for Bev’s idea of gross. She’s wearing heeled boots, and a casual jeans and striped top look that Bev still recognises as an expensive casual-wear label. Bev definitely thinks she didn’t look this cute and put together when she arrived after all the train travel from New York. Then again, she had been actively fleeing, with only the clothes she’d put on and whatever she’d already had packed in her go bag.

There’s something very familiar about her, but she is a little too drunk to focus on it right now.

Bev smiles at her. She’s very pretty. She _knows _her face. “You’re not gross at all,” Bev says, and the woman smiles appreciatively. “I’m sure we can help you find the night concierge, if you want? He’s probably asleep in the backroom, honestly.”

The woman laughs, lightly. “Really? That would be great –”

Eddie suddenly pipes up next to her. “I know who you are!” he says, awkwardly loud, and then colours. He seems astonished. “My wife always watches your movies, I mean, I like them too – hang on –” He flushes more, looking both embarrassed and confused.

The woman looks kind of amused anyway, through her general aura of tiredness. “Well, always nice to meet a fan.”

Bev’s stomach jolts, and she realises who she is and wonders how she’s taken this long. When she’s seen her on magazines in the grocery store checkout line, seen her face browsing Netflix, on red carpets on TV. She suddenly feels a lot guiltier.

Eddie looks at her anxiously, and she raises her eyebrows at him, hopefully conveying, _I know but I don’t know what to tell you. _Her eyebrows are great, but they might not have that in them.

They look back at the woman. She gives them a slightly curious look, but continues smiling. “I’m Audra...but I guess at least one of you already knows that.”

“Bev,” she says, not thinking to introduce herself fully. Honestly, she’s proud of herself for even carrying on the interaction this coherently right now.

“Eddie,” Eddie introduces himself nervously.

Audra nods. Her hair’s kind of a strawberry blonde. Definitely reddish. Red-copper, Bev decides idly. “Are there many people staying here?” Audra asks, lightly. 

“Not that many, no,” Bev answers, unsure what she’s going to say to the question she knows is probably coming.

“You wouldn’t happen to have seen my husband around, would you have?” Audra continues, and her smile strains momentarily. “I’ve been trying to contact him but I think his phone’s dead. I know he’s staying here, which is another reason I wanted to stay here,” she says, and then smiles, abashedly. “Sorry, I’m totally just assuming you know who he is already,” she says, with an embarrassed chuckle.

Bev feels another jolt of guilt. _And how, lady. _It’s not even like she _did _anything, but she’s aware she’s not totally innocent of it either.

Eddie lets out a nervous syllable of laughter and shuts up again.

Audra definitely gives them a bit of a strange look, but continues politely. “Bill Denbrough? Writer and plaid shirt enthusiast, you might have seen him talking to himself and pacing as he works out an idea?”

“Yeah, we’re, uh, familiar,” Eddie pipes up again nervously.

“He’s staying here, yeah,” Bev adds. “We’re actually friends of his.” Somehow she can’t quite manage the ‘oh us? Yeah, just childhood sweethearts’ part yet.

“Oh, it’s so nice to meet you,” Audra says, beaming.

Bev smiles more at Audra, masking her nervousness. “So, he doesn’t know you were coming, then?”

Audra chuckles, slightly strained. “I thought I’d surprise him. You don’t know if he’s in his room then?”

Eddie looks at her, and she shakes her head. “I think he’s –” she starts and realises he took a walk _hours _ago and really hopes nothing’s happened to him, oh god, act natural, act calm and not drunk. “Out, right now, sorry. But if we wake up the desk clerk I’m sure he’ll give us a key to Bill’s room and let you in.”

Audra is clearly disappointed, but she puts on a smile again, ever so slightly strained. “It’s kind of – late to be out, you don’t think he’s in trouble do you?”

Bev’s stomach jolts, but she pushes the thought away. “He’s probably just out helping our friend with sorting and hasn’t remembered his charger. I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” she says, basically lying. He _could _be, but it’s somewhat unlikely. Maybe he is with Stan though.

Audra looks a little more mollified. “Ok, well, let’s go wake this guy up. Also, I know I just met you so this is a totally weird request but, do you have any bed socks you’re not using? I didn’t realise Maine was so fucking cold, my feet are like ice.”

Bev nods, with an awkward chuckle. “We’re bonding, it’s ok. And I do. You’re welcome to them.”

Audra smiles gratefully. “Thank _God _for you Bev. And Eddie,” she adds, with a smile at him.

“No problem,” Bev says lightly, feeling guiltier by the second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUN....this has been a series of dramatic chapters, but I promise it's going to be worth all the pain! everyone who is leaving kudos & comments on this work, you make my day to see that and I really appreciate it :)) I hope you enjoyed this one, we're really coming to the pointy end of this one so it'll probably be finished in 2-3 more chapters!
> 
> title of the chapter, if you're interested, is from cold little heart by michael kiwanuka (which you might be familiar with if you watched any of big little lies)


	9. I Didn't Know I Was Broken Till I Wanted To Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we're back! I've had this chapter beta'd for a few days but I've had no time to actually upload it, obviously things have been a bit weird and intense lately. hoping everyone reading this is safe and healthy and looking after themselves, and i hope this gives you a little bit of escapism :)

Stan contemplates his tea. He’d wanted something stronger but Richie had advised against it, noting that alcohol wasn’t really helping any of them today.

He and Richie had shared a vaguely shocked silence the whole ride home. Now they’re sharing a less shocked, but still confused silence on the couch at Stan’s.

“So…Bill’s bisexual, then?” Richie ventures, sounding deeply bewildered.

Stan shrugs, frowning. “Guess so.”

There’s a silence.

“When did he even…” Richie starts and trails off. He looks anxious suddenly. “He wouldn’t have like, cheated on Bev with – ”

“Richie, come on,” Stan cuts him off irritably, feeling a stab of panic. He looks at him. “No, I don’t think he would have done that. I _definitely _don’t think Mike would have ever…” He sighs. “I don’t know for certain, but Mike and I were pretty honest about our history. I don’t believe he was lying.”

Thinking about it is painful, so he takes a sip of tea. Richie looks at him guiltily. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply shit about you and him.”

Stan shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

They’re quiet again for a while. Both thinking about what they saw. As much as Stan would like not to, he can’t stop thinking about it. It’s probably a good thing he isn’t drinking, but he still feels so damn embarrassed. For just assuming Mike was just here, by himself, not needing anyone else. For assuming he was the only boy Mike had ever liked in that way. Because of course it was Bill, too. It’s not surprising, really.

Really, he’s embarrassed for attacking him in the first place.

“But you think Mike had a crush on him, before?” Richie muses, and Stan glares at him.

“I really don’t know, Rich. Why does it matter?” he replies frustratedly.

Richie puts his hands up. “Sorry, sorry…I’m just – curious, you know? I really didn’t fuckin’ see _this _coming.”

“Me neither,” Stan says, softer. He has to keep reminding himself it’s not Richie’s fault he feels shitty. It’s not even Bill or Mike, it’s just him. Blundering into something he shouldn’t have. And he still hasn’t been able to apologise.

“It’s Bill, y’know?” Richie says, and smiles a little. “I feel like seven year old me would be _furious _to know this.”

Stan grins a little, and sighs. “Well I don’t think it was just you that had a small childhood crush on him. Kind of seems like a rite of passage now.”

Richie grins. “Ah shit, of course.” He looks at Stan. “I know I asked you before, and I’ll stop if it’s pissing you off, but…how are you doing with it?”

Stan puts his tea down on the coffee table, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. He shrugs. “It’s…not really my business. I went to apologise to Mike, which I still haven’t done, which sucks.” He isn’t going to say it. “But I –” he starts. “I thought there was something there, with him. And I feel so… _stupid_ now.” Damnit.

He looks up at the ceiling, cringing. “I feel stupid even talking about this, it’s so…tenth grade.”

Richie laughs. “Yeah, you’re fuckin’ right. I mean what is being back here but feeling uncomfortably like you’re fifteen again?” He laughs again, tiredly. “Meanwhile, I’m not talking to one of my best friends because we had a fight. Feels like 1994 all over again.”

Stan groans and rubs his eyes again, and then puts his glasses back on. “I hate it. I’m a forty-year old man, this is ridiculous.”

Richie looks at him. “Look, we don’t _know _that they’re together right now –“

Stan gives him a look and he shuts up.

After a moment though he speaks again, because he is impossible to quieten for long. He looks at Stan. “I don’t know, man. I think you should – and I hope you appreciate how hard it is for me to say this sincerely and not put on a Voice – tell Mike. After you apologise, of course.”

Stan looks at him for a moment, speechless.

“Seriously? After what we just saw? Are you kidding?” Stan shakes his head. “I don’t even know what there is to tell.”

Richie makes a derisive noise. “You _know. _You love him and you want to have his mixed-race Black Jewish babies, you know, that kind of stuff –”

Stan glares at him. “Oh my god, I’m going to _strangle_ you Richie.”

Richie chuckles. “Sorry, ok. But you like him, and once he forgives you – which he will – may as well shoot your shot, you know?”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “Shoot my shot?” He frowns. “No. Whatever it is, it’s not – I just want to apologise, as a friend. I think that ship sailed a long time ago.”

Richie frowns at this, and goes quiet.

***

The walk back from the bar stops Bill’s head from spinning, but he’s still fairly drunk as he walks back up the steps of the guesthouse.

His face is cold and his lips are still tingling. Mike was probably right – he would have regretted sleeping with him in the cold light of morning. It’s probably a good thing Mike had any sense of self-control, because he really didn’t in that moment.

He’s still thinking about the kiss. It was a good kiss. Something Bev said to him earlier floats in and out of his consciousness. _What kind of person does this twice in one day?_

He’s 0 for 2 with hitting on childhood friends tonight, who are clearly smarter than he is and won’t just let themselves be used because he’s – because he doesn’t know what he wants. He feels a spike of shame. Must be sobering up.

He heads up the stairs, looking forward to his bed. He’s tired. It’s been a long night.

There are people clustered around his door. He recognises two of them, through a haze of drunkenness. Bev’s red hair. Eddie looking anxious. He sees Bill first and pales. There’s a third person, with their back to him, who almost looks like –

“Bill! Thank God,” Bev says, smiling at him. She looks nervous too. “We were just going to let her into your room.”

“She’s had a long journey,” Eddie adds, eyes flicking between him and the new person.

She turns around, and his stomach drops. He’s not a spiritual person, but right now he’s thinking that karma works fast.

“Surprise,” Audra says weakly. Her small smile isn’t very convinced of itself.

“Audra,” he says, trying not to sound too stunned. “Wh-what are you doing h-here?”

Her eyes flash. She’s not happy.

He’s not surprised. His guilty stomach drops further.

“Wh-what about the movie?” he asks.

“Production’s tied up for a few days,” she replies quickly. “And you were ignoring my calls, you stopped replying to my texts, I had to find out whether you were dead or not. Like I said before, I really need to talk to you. It’s important.”

He blinks. “I – I turned my ph-phone off to w-write today, sorry – I w-wasn’t ignoring you, honey.”

She narrows her eyes at him, like he’s mocking her somehow. He doesn’t stutter this much at home. “Are you…drunk, right now?”

He doesn’t say yes, but she takes the answer from his guilty expression. Her eyes flash again. Not good.

“For fuck’s sake, Bill! Really seems like you had a productive day,” she snaps.

“We’re just gonna…go –” Eddie starts awkwardly.

“Jesus Christ, is everyone here drunk but me?” Audra cuts him off frustratedly.

“In this town, it helps,” Bev replies drily.

Bill looks between all of them. Audra looks pissed. Eddie looks like he’s about to hyperventilate. Bev looks uncomfortable. They both look kind of flushed and glassy eyed. He remembers suddenly what Mike had told him earlier about Eddie, and understands how he might have gotten drawn into drinking with Bev.

Audra sighs, and looks back at them. “Sorry, that was uncalled for. Thanks for your help, I really appreciate it.”

Bev smiles appreciatively. “It’s been a long day, I’m sure. We should – leave you to it, though.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Eddie says with barely concealed-relief to be leaving. He and Bev walk off quickly.

Audra turns to him, frowning. She doesn’t break eye contact. “Well? Where the hell have you been? Why are you drunk?”

He flashes on the last few hours and guilt spikes in his stomach again. “I – I actually finished the ending today. I went out for a walk, and then I ended up celebrating with a friend. And sort of, being a sympathetic ear. He had a really bad day. Our friend, the one we came here to look after, totally lost it at him for reasons that I still don’t really understand, and well, and he needed cheering up.”

_Oh so that’s why you did it. Very selfless of you, _says a nasty voice in his head.

Audra softens slightly.

He gives her a genuinely apologetic look. “I r-really am so sorry, b-babe. I should have got b-back to y-you earlier. Sorry for scaring y-you.”

She gives him a look, like she doesn’t want to cave but knows she’s going to. He knows that look well. “Alright, I guess…I can understand that,” she says slowly. “I never realised you stutter so much when you’re drunk.”

He smiles, and nods. “Y-yeah,” he says, even though he knows that’s not exactly true. He looks at her. “Thank you for c-coming though. It’s really g-good to see y-you.”

She looks at him, and smiles a little, and holds out her arms. “You too. I’ve been travelling all day, I feel gross, but I’d love a hug.”

He smiles and goes to her, wrapping his arms around her. For someone who’s been travelling all day, she still smells good. It’s things like this that he forgets, how comforting it is to hold her. He feels even worse, because being around her reminds him how much he misses her.

She yawns into his chest. “I’m exhausted. Can we sleep now?”

“Sounds g-good,” he says. “It’s n-not exactly f-five-star though.”

She laughs. “I’m so tired I don’t care.”

He kisses her head, feeling guilt swirling in his stomach.

***

Mike wakes up when the sun comes through his bedroom window. He didn’t close the blind last night. He’d basically fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He had managed to change into his boxers, and not sleep in his clothes from last night, so, small victories.

His head doesn’t appreciate this lack of foresight now. It’s aching. _Definitely _drank too much last night. It’s a blessing he’s not going to work today. Even though it’s kind of a waste now.

He remembers last night, and groans into his pillow. He had to go and make things weird with Bill, like things aren’t fucked-up enough with Stan.

He’s going to have to see Bill at some point, and apologise, which is embarrassing. He can’t imagine Bill feels great about it either though. They’re going to have to talk about it at some point, if only to put it behind them.

He groans again.

Still, he’s ninety-eight percent certain – in the sober, head-crashing light of morning – that he’s glad he didn’t wake up next to Bill. The guilt and embarrassment he’s feeling now would have been nothing next to how he’d have felt if they’d drunkenly done…that. (The other two percent of him hasn’t gotten laid in a fairly long time, and therefore is judgement-impaired, especially when mixed with alcohol.)

He drags himself out of bed after a while, and struggles to open the aspirin bottle in his bathroom. He throws two back with a glass of water, and hears his phone go.

He runs back out to get it, has a minor struggle remembering where he left it when he came in last night, and manages to find it and answer in time.

He briefly registers that it’s Bev before he picks up. “Hey”.

“Oof,” comes Bev’s feeble voice, on the other end. “You sound as bad as I feel. You ok?”

She sounds hungover as well. Bill said they’d hung out. Maybe they’d been drinking as well. He’d be surprised if Bill wasn’t nursing his own crashing hangover. Not a good night for the three of them, then.

“Yeah, one too many last night,” he says, with a weak chuckle.

“Who were you out with last night?” she asks, surprised.

He feels a stab of guilt. It’s ridiculous, because they’re not sixteen and Bill hasn’t been her boyfriend in over twenty years – but he still has a weird sense of having mistreated her.

“Uh, Bill. Celebrating him pretty much finishing the ending of the movie.” He doesn’t feel like explaining the Stan thing to her yet, not over the phone. His head is already aching.

“So _that’s _where he went,” she replies, curiously. “He just disappeared for ages, and then turned up later, drunk. I was kind of worried. But then again, I was also pretty drunk, so. Can’t exactly judge.” She pauses. “Speaking of, I have some _news _about last night –” she says, then pauses again. “No, I’m fine. I’m never drinking again though,” she says, wretchedly.

Mike sighs. “I feel you, sister. Alcohol is the devil.”

Bev snorts. “Isn’t that the truth. I think Eddie would agree, right now.” She sighs. “Anyway, I’m sorry for waking you, I didn’t think you’d be hungover.”

He smiles a little. “Don’t worry, I was already up.”

“Good,” she says, happier. “I wanted to ask you to do something with me, but if you can’t face leaving your couch today, I get it. I can totally do it by myself.”

He attempts to shake his head, even though it’s just a voice call, and winces. “No, what is it? I’ve had some aspirin, I’m feeling better already.”

She takes a breath. “I’d like to visit Miriam and Ernie. In the cemetery. I haven’t been yet.”

“Alright. When do you want to meet? I can be ready in ten minutes,” Mike replies, matter-of-factly. Fuck having a hangover, this is way more important.

“Can we say half an hour at the cemetery?” she asks.

“Done.”

“Thanks, Mike,” she says, voice wavering just a little. “You sure you’re ok to come?”

“I’d like nothing better.” He smiles to himself.

“You’re the best brother, you know that?” she replies, genuinely.

“I’m glad, I’m your only brother,” he returns, beaming.

***

Bev is grateful she’s wearing sunglasses. She had managed to take some aspirin for her head, but she’s still leery of the sunlight and the headache isn’t fully gone yet.

Of all the things that had happened yesterday, she hadn’t expected ‘meeting a celebrity’ to be one of them, especially after she’d decided her problems couldn’t catch her if she was too drunk to remember what they were. It wasn’t her first, she worked in an industry that often relied on celebrities for exposure and branding, so she’d met her fair share. But never just a few hours after almost drunkenly kissing their husbands. Who also happened to be her ex-boyfriend and first love.

She wonders how they’re doing, whether they’re awake yet. If Bill went out and got drunk again, _after _drinking with her, he must have a hangover to rival her own.

She looks out at the cemetery. She was never a fan, when she lived here. When she was little it gave her the creeps. After that summer, it reminded her how close they’d all come to being buried there. And now it reminds her of painful memories, regrets.

She spots Mike near the entrance. He’s also wearing sunglasses, and looks almost as bad as she feels. His smile lights up his face when he sees what she’s carrying.

She holds out the coffee to him, and he looks at it lovingly. “Oh my god, do you know that you’re an actual angel? I didn’t even leave myself time to make a coffee before I left, thank you so much.”

She smiles. “Figured we could both use it. Also, it’s my apology for waking you up.”

He waves a hand. “Again, I was already awake. But I’ll accept it.”

She looks at him. “Are you ok? Really?”

She can’t see his eyes, but he smiles warmly at her. “Yeah. Just overdid it a bit.”

She’s not certain that’s all it is, but he continues. He holds out his hand to her, his coffee in the opposite one. “You ready to do this?”

She takes his hand, and a breath. “Let’s go.”

*

The cemetery is unsurprisingly, pretty empty. Not a lot of mourners out on a Monday morning in late November.

She didn’t want to come, before. But it’s only right that she’s paying her respects now.

Mike leads her to where the graves are. 

There are two well-maintained headstones, bearing the names Ernest and Miriam Sackett, and some dates and epitaphs for each. Bev is glad she’s wearing sunglasses.

“They’re really – you did a great job,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Thanks,” Mike says, huskily. “I try to get here once a month, if I can. Keep them maintained. Replace the flowers, you know.”

Bev shakes her head, looking at him. “Still looking after them, even after they’re gone. I should have done more.”

Mike looks at her, and takes off his sunglasses. “They wouldn’t have such nice gravestones if you hadn’t sent me money, Bev. Not to mention how expensive funerals are, and coffins and everything.” He smiles sympathetically at her. “You did enough.”

She looks at him. She doesn’t take her own sunglasses off. She looks back at the graves. “Enough would have been goddamn coming back for the funerals.”

Mike doesn’t say anything, just takes her hand.

“I’m so sorry, Mike,” she says, and she can already feel a tear escaping from underneath her sunglasses and rolling down her cheek.

“Hey, it’s alright –“ he starts, lightly.

“It’s not though,” she interrupts, shaking her head. She pulls her sunglasses up. “I let that fucking _asshole_ stop me from going to so _many _things. Important things! Stan’s wedding! _Both _Miriam and Ernie’s funerals, Mike! I’m so angry about it, both at him and myself, for not fucking leaving him so much sooner!”

He lets go of her hand so he can pull her to him gently, and wrap her in a hug. His hugs really are still the best. He looks at her, sadly, letting her go. “Don’t do that to yourself, Bev. It was a bad situation. It was –“ he grimaces. “Dangerous. Maybe…maybe you just needed to remember how _goddamn_ strong you really are before you left him.”

She sniffs. “Have I mentioned you’re the best?” she says, attempting a weak smile. “I love you. I’ll never be able to apologise enough for…shutting you out, but I can make sure I never do it again.”

He takes her hands, and looks at her seriously. “Really, Bev, stop apologising for that. I absolve you , even though I don’t even blame you – because…well, you know why. You’re here now, that’s the most important thing to me. Honestly. Please, _please,_ stop tearing yourself up about it.”

He looks so genuinely worried, that she feels guilty. She nods. “Ok. I’ll try.”

He smiles. “Good. Because I love you too.”

Bev turns back to the graves. Mike keeps one of her hands in his.

She stares at the stones.

Mike says, after a moment, quietly, “You know, my parents are buried here, too. And my grandfather. I go to see them, when I come see Miriam and Ernie. Sometimes I talk to them…I can give you some space if you want to do that.”

She shakes her head. “I’d like you to stay.”

Mike nods. “Of course.”

She’s quiet for a moment, looking at the gravestones. “Hi guys,” she starts, uncertainly. “I know I wasn’t – I wasn’t always easy to raise. I’m…I’m sorry it took me so long to come back. I’m so sorry –“ she says, and breaks off, crying silently. Mike drops her hand to put an arm around her, and she leans into his shoulder.

“Hey, Bev?” Mike asks her, softly. “Do you remember those visits when they could get away from the farm, and they drove up to New York with me?”

Bev sniffs. “Yeah. I should have made more of an effort to come back in return. Instead of making them do that big trip.”

Mike holds her, one-armed. “No, I was going to say – they were always excited for those trips. They were farmers from Maine. You gave them a reason to see somewhere exciting that they wouldn’t otherwise have got to see.”

She sniffs again. “Really?”

“Really,” he says, warmly. “Also, they were always excited to see you doing so well in New York. They might have been strict about some things, but they really wanted you to succeed. They were really proud of what you achieved, Bev.”

She buries her face in his side again. When she resurfaces, she says in a shaking voice. “I can’t get back everything he took from me, you know? All that fucking _time._”

He nods again, looking sad. “All the more reason to make it count now, then.”

She almost smiles at this. “Right.”

They stay by the graveside for a while.

“So…Ben told me he loved me. And then I freaked out like a jerk about it.” She suddenly feels like she should tell him about yesterday.

Mike nods. “Yeah, I kinda know. I’m sorry, though.”

She looks at him, surprised. “Really?”

“Bill told me, last night,” he explains.

She chuckles slightly, shaking her head. “Of course he did,” she says, not angrily though. “Hard to keep anything from all of us.”

He grins. “Yeah, I guess.”

He looks at her seriously. “You know, it’d be ok if you just couldn’t handle jumping into a whole other romantic thing right now, when you’re already coping with all of the other marriage/divorce shit. You know I love him, but he’s an adult. He’ll be able to deal with it.” He pauses. “And that’s not to mention…I don’t know whether you even have any kind of non-friend feelings –”

She groans. “I – I think I do, though.”

“Oh.” He smiles a little. “Well, I mean, that’s good isn’t it?”

She looks at him miserably. “No. Because of everything you just said. And because he deserves better than someone who’s going to – treat him like that.”

Mike looks pensive. Then he looks at her. “Look, it’s not like I think jumping into a new thing is going to solve all your problems. But I just – I think he could be good for you. It’s Ben. You deserve a Ben in your life, Bev.”

She smiles at him, and then starts to frown. “Well, thanks. But I’m pretty sure I blew it.”

“I doubt it,” Mike replies, matter-of-factly. “He’s not the type to give up easily. Or hold grudges. We’re pretty similar people.”

She smiles at him. “Well, I’m going to apologise, anyway.”

“Probably a good idea,” he says, and a yawn cuts into the end of his sentence. He does look tired. There’s something sad in his eyes, even though he looks fine now.

“So, how was your night, then?” she asks, curious.

He almost looks caught off guard for a moment. “Um, fine. We drank too much though,” he says, with regret.

“I feel that,” she agrees, rubbing her the bridge of her nose. She looks back at him. “So, it was just celebratory drinks?”

He nods, a little too casually. “How was your night? You were doing some pre-drinking with Bill?”

He’s changing the subject, but she’ll allow it for now. “Yeah, I talked with him a bit. And then Eddie and I ended up doing shots and talking about marriages. And our terrible parents.”

Mike frowns. “I’m obviously very sad for you both about that, but also – shots?”

She smiles. “Eddie didn’t like the mixer. So we did shots.” She grimaces. “Would not recommend. I forgot briefly that I’m not nineteen anymore. I think I might give drinking a break for a month or so.”

He shudders. “With you there. I haven’t been so hungover since last year’s Christmas Party.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You party animal, you.”

He chuckles.

She gasps. “Oh shit, and I totally buried the lede! Guess who Eddie and I met last night at the guesthouse?”

He looks surprised. “Someone we know?”

She shakes her head, excited to have the gossip for once. “No, someone we _don’t. _We were embarrassingly drunk, and we met _Audra. Denbrough_. Or _Phillips__ Denbrough, _I think. Anyway, she was very nice even though there was no one at the desk and we were drunk and Bill wasn’t there – she’s _gorgeous _in real life, like, maybe even more than in pictures – I’ve met other actors, and that’s not always – what’s going on with your face?”

Mike looks stricken, like she’s just announced there was a fire at his apartment and they couldn’t save any of his books. “Oh God,” he says faintly.

She looks at him, starting to worry in her confusion. “What’s happening right now? Mike? You look like that time –” she starts, and then gasps. “What did you _do_?”

He cringes. “I just want to say first, that I was going to tell you but I’m still trying to deal with it and I’m hungover, so please don’t hate me.”

She’s surprised by this. “Hate you? Unlikely. Go ahead.”

He’s looking guiltier and guiltier, come to think of it. “Ok, well like I said, I drank too much last night. And I kind of – made a mistake. And I’m sure one of these lovely accepting townspeople saw it, so that’s not great.”

“You’re stalling,” she points out, now very curious. He nods.

“I am. God, this is a bit awkward, but if she’s here now – then I feel like I should probably tell you…” He takes a breath, looking uncomfortable. “I kissed Bill last night. Well, he kissed me. But then I kissed him back.”

She allows herself to be surprised for a moment. “Oh. Wow.” Then she thinks for a moment. “Look, I’m not like – jealous, here, it’s been a long time since we were together – but just an hour, or however many before, he tried to kiss me. We were tipsy, and dancing and one thing very almost nearly led to another...” she says, vaguely indignant. “I told him we’d had our time though.”

Mike looks a little affronted. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, he did talk about you. He said he’d just come from seeing you…so much for maturity and moving on from your high school ex though, _Bill._”

She almost smiles. “Yeah, I feel very special now, _Bill._”

She cracks first, then he does. It’s odd to be laughing in a cemetery, but no-one’s there but them.

He shakes his head. “God, I’m not mad, really. He’s just always needed a lot of affection.”

“Can you blame him?” she says, quietly.

“No,” Mike says, with equal affection and sadness. He sighs, sounding relieved. “Well, I’m doubly glad that I told him I didn’t want to ruin our friendship over what we almost did then.”

She sucks in a breath. “Wow, you almost…damn, Mike.”

He grimaces. “Almost. If I had – and then you’d told me this, I’d be feeling a lot more regret right now. And I’m already feeling pretty regretful.”

She frowns, sympathetic. “I’m sorry that you are, Mike.”

He looks grateful.

“So – I realise it’s a bit awkward to talk about this with me, but you brought it up –” Bev starts, and Mike smiles, only slightly embarrassed. “It was just, like mine, a drunken lapse in judgment? You’re not, like – you don’t want to be with him?”

“No, no, oh my God,” Mike says, sounding mortified now. “I mean, for one, he’s married. I don’t do that. Well, _usually_.” He cringes, momentarily. “But for another –” He doesn’t meet her eyes for a moment, shamefaced. “I do love him, you know.”

Bev nods. It’s not surprising, among them. They’ve been through too much terrifying shit to fear admitting how much they care about each other. Most of the time. “Me too. Not in the same way anymore, I think, but he’s still our Bill. We’ll always love him.”

He nods, smiling a little. “I’ll admit – I might have had a kind of crush, a long time ago. Not like the kind where you’re lying on your bed listening to sad songs and pining, just – it was _him_. We all sort of looked up to him. We followed him into hell and back.”

She smiles, feeling strangely bittersweet. “Yeah, we did, didn’t we?”

“It’s hard to – not have had a bit of a crush.”

“Believe it or not, I can relate.” Bev smirks.

He grins, and then it fades a little. “Yeah. But this – maybe in that moment, I was exactly who he wanted. I’d like to believe it, I guess. But I also think that…we were both drunk, we were lonely. He was clearly feeling a bit rejected. I didn’t want to just be – convenient, for him. Not him. I just got my friend back, and that could have ruined it. Probably would have.”

She looks at him, sympathetic. “Well, I think it’s a good idea you didn’t. But…I doubt you were just conveniently there. He always cared a lot about you.”

“Thanks, Bev,” Mike says, smiling. His eyes crinkle warmly, but they’re still tired, something sad and distant in them.

“Why were you feeling so lonely?” she asks, deciding to get into it. She can’t help being worried about him.

He hesitates, and shakes his head. “It was just a – weird afternoon. I’m fine. Now, anyway.”

“I knew it! You weren’t just getting trashed to celebrate Bill,” she realises. Which makes her even more worried. “What happened, honey?” she says, concerned. “Richie said you might be mad at him. Was it because of the fight? Did you get into it with him?”

She’s pretty sure that can’t be it though, because it’s unlikely Richie wouldn’t have told her that after telling her how cruel he was to Stan.

He looks uncomfortable. “No, it wasn’t Richie – wait, you talked to him?” he says, expression darkening suddenly. “Is he still acting like a dick?”

She shakes her head. “We talked it out, and you know him, he’s genuinely remorseful – he just fucked up. If he’s finished with Eddie and Stan, you’re probably next on his list of apologies. But I haven’t seen him since yesterday, so I don’t know. He’s trying to make up for it, though.”

He nods, still looking a little annoyed. “I’m glad he is. He’s got a bit to make up for.” He pauses. “Eddie sounded just…hollow, on the phone. I don’t care about him making up with me, but whatever else, I hope he puts that right, because Eddie doesn’t deserve the hurt.”

Bev nods, solemnly. “I’m a hundred percent with you on that. I saw it up close last night, and it seems like he has good reason to be hurt. But knowing what I know about it – what I’ve gotten from both of them – there’s a lot to unpack there. I’d avoid wading into it until they’ve sorted it out themselves. Richie’s not solely at fault there.”

“Yeah, it wouldn’t be a fight between them if it wasn’t complicated and both of their fault,” Mike concedes. He sighs, a half-ragged noise. “I wish – I wish things weren’t so fucked up between all of us right now.”

Bev starts to make a heavy noise of agreement, then stops, stomach plummeting. “Wait, what do you mean all of us?”

***

Mike freezes. He hadn’t meant to reveal that much. It’s not that he thinks she wouldn’t get it – he just feels sick talking about it, and he’s already hungover.

Bev looks worriedly at him, crossing her arms. “I knew it – I knew something was up with you. Because, obviously, you’re allowed to be - but you didn’t ever used to get this annoyed with Richie, even when he was being super annoying. Which makes me think this is about something else.”

It is and it isn’t. He doesn’t even know if he blames Richie, even though he’s still mad at him. Maybe they would have had it out anyway, at some point soon. Clearly it was pretty close to the surface with Stan, he thinks bitterly. But the fact that – _something _had been going on, and now he doesn’t know what to think of it, that he’d been deluding himself that something was still there between them, or that Stan would gaslight him that it wasn’t – both options make him feel sick. And if Richie had never come crashing in yesterday he might never have had to think about it. But maybe that’s self-deluding too.

He doesn’t say anything.

Looking apprehensive, Bev continues, “Please tell me nothing bad happened between you and Stan after he fought with Richie?”

He looks away, throat starting to feel tight again. “I can’t.”

Her face falls. “Oh no, Mike, I’m so sorry.” She shakes her head. “What was it about yesterday, huh?”

He frowns, a little. “I can’t speak for you, but my day started turning to shit the minute Richie got in and started drunkenly abusing Stan. _That’s _why I’m still mad at him. Because we weren’t here to do that…” he says, shortly, and trails off. He looks away for a moment, and back. “But now I’m wondering what the hell I thought I was doing here, for Stan.”

She looks confused, anxious. “What do you mean?”

He looks down for a moment or two. “Richie crushed Stan, Bev. He devastated him, for worrying about him, for caring about him, and for trying to make him feel better, as fucking always,” he breaks off, breathing hard. Bev looks deeply concerned. “For all of that, Stan devastated me. And I don’t – I don’t know what to do now –“ he says, and just as he’s sure he can finish his sentence without breaking, his voice wavers on the last few words and he finds himself, embarrassingly, crying.

Bev goes to him immediately, and not for the first time today he’s so glad she’s here. She holds him tightly. He holds her tightly back.

“This is kind of embarrassing,” he says, wiping his eyes after he lets go. “It must seem like a bit of an extreme reaction, even for us. It just – it came out of the blue, for me. I knew Stan was angry at Richie, but I never dreamed he’d be mad at me.”

“I’m so sorry, Mike.” She looks deeply sad, and still confused. “I just don’t understand what he could possibly be mad at you for? We had a pretty intense, deep conversation the other night - possibly very early Sunday morning - and I feel like if he’d been mad at you, this much, it would have come up…”

Mike feels guilty, for a moment, for some reason. It’s not like he was ever morally obliged to tell her about them. It was their secret. But he never liked having secrets from her, not when they told each other pretty much everything else. He told her he was in love with a boy, at least, some kind of compromise between not wanting to out Stan before he was ready and his need to tell someone about it, to tell her about this important thing that was happening to him.

It’s been twenty-two years, but he’s still not going to do that to Stan. Even if he’s angry at him right now.

He shakes his head. “It’s really…it was just something between us. It’s not important.”

She looks at him strangely, still sad. There’s a beat of silence. She sighs. “I wasn’t sure – if I’d bring this up with you now, because it’s not really my business, but…during that conversation we had, Stan told me.”

Mike can’t quite understand his immediate reaction to this, whether it’s dragging his spirits further down or strangely, lifting them. “He told you it was him? That last summer?” he says tentatively, after a beat.

“He did,” she says, carefully. “And I know why you didn’t tell me it was him, but you know I would have been thrilled for you, right? I love you both so much, I wouldn’t have been able to think of a better guy for you.”

He breaks into a true smile, unable to stop himself. Still watching him nervously, she beams back at him. “You wanna come over here again? I’m not done hugging you today, apparently.”

She laughs and hugs him again.

“God, I’ve missed this,” he says, letting her go. “I don’t mean that as a guilt-trip kind of thing. I just mean…I missed talking to you.”

She nods, still smiling, though he can see the sadness in her eyes. “Yeah, me too.”

She looks at him, meaningfully. “So, I get your reaction to him fighting with you. What I don’t understand is what it was even about?”

He sighs, heavily. “I – I guess I’ve been feeling like there’s been some…remnants of feelings, between us that I thought weren’t there any more – but spending this time with him, honestly more than I’ve spent with him in years, it’s been coming back to me. It’s having him here, too, visiting all these places I don’t go to that much in my normal life, these places we all hung out in school. It brings a lot back –“ he says, voice cutting out awkwardly.

Bev looks understanding. “Yeah, I think I can relate.”

Mike smiles, ruefully. “Yeah.”

She looks sympathetic and sad. She waits for him to gather his thoughts, which he appreciates. It’s painful, going back into it, but it also feels way better to be able to talk about it with someone. Cathartic at least.

“There was…a moment, when we were painting the house, when it was just us, that I thought he felt it too. I really thought –” he tries, and then breaks off again. “But then, you know, Richie. And then everything just went to hell from there.”

She frowns. “So, Richie left…and he was upset, and he took it out on you? I mean, I’m not saying that you should just forgive him, but you have to know he didn’t mean whatever he said, right?”

Mike shakes his head. His throat feels tighter again. “I appreciate you trying to…” he starts, and trails off. At this rate he’ll never be able to explain. “But it wasn’t – he didn’t just snap at me, or something. I’m not getting upset over him saying something to me in a mean way. He – he questioned my entire motive for being here to support him. He basically said that I was deliberately – deliberately trying to mess with his head by flirting with him!”

Bev puts a hand to her mouth. “Oh God, Mike. That definitely is some bullshit.”

He’s angrier again, now, thinking about it. And hurting again. He looks away, swallows, and looks back at her. “Fucking right? And then when I told him that, we got into it about why we were even bothering to be friends for so long, and he – he made me feel like I was just imagining that there was still something there. And it made me feel so _fucking_ shitty, because I’m not sure if he was being honest and I’m just – pathetically not over it, when he got over it by nineteen – or if he was lying, and he did feel it, and he just thought he’d gaslight me into shutting up about it. I honestly don’t know which I want it to be, because both options are _fucked._”

He breathes hard. She reaches over to take his hand, squeezing it comfortingly. She looks horrified, and upset, and he wonders if he should have told her. She’s got enough on her plate, obviously.

She takes a breath, and looks at him seriously. “I know I keep saying it, but I’m so sorry. That’s – awful. And I’m – I’m angry for you, but all I can say, without defending him too much because he is still an adult and responsible for his actions, is that Richie has always been good at knowing exactly where to poke. So he gets in Stan’s head, and he’s so mixed-up right now that he, stupidly, lashes out at you because you’re there and he likes things to make sense, and nothing in his life has made sense for a while now, least of all his renewed friendship with you. How can he still be coping with missing his ex and feeling shitty about that but also be remembering how he felt about you? How is it fair that he can be so happy right now, seeing you again, when he feels so guilty about so much right now?”

Mike is speechless, mouth too dry to talk. That’s why he tells her things like this.

She squeezes his hand, looking worried. “I don’t know that it will make you feel better, but I don’t think it’s just you. He wouldn’t have told me about your past if it really was completely in the past.” She smiles, empathetically. “And you’re absolutely _not _pathetic, Mike. If you are, I definitely would be, so give us both a break.”

He smiles, weakly. “Alright.” He looks away, struggling with whether to say the next thing. “It doesn’t matter though. I mean, if he apologises, and he probably will, and I’ll most likely accept it because I _hate_ fighting with people, let alone any of you. If that happens, the most we are again is friends. Even if there is some complicated, latent feelings thing between us it’s like…well, both of our experiences with Bill last night. Sure, there are some old feelings there, but it would be a bad idea from the start, because he’s not available. Stan still loves Patty, and why wouldn’t he? They were together for basically twenty years, and they were _so _in love. Anything else is probably a distraction.”

Bev seems to think about this, still holding his hand. “Yeah, I don’t have an answer for that one, really…” He looks up at her, and she’s looking at him gently. “I think he’ll always love her, a bit. But I also think that…it’s been a year. It’s been a long one, and he’s been through a lot. He’s not the same person that he was when they were together. He might – once he apologises – want to figure out who he is right now. With you.”

He looks away again. It’s too hard to deal with and process what she’s saying while maintaining eye contact. “I think…he needs to figure out what he wants. I wish he’d apologise. Beyond that, I think – the question of us is a bit too complicated for him right now. And maybe for me. I don’t want to feel like this again…” He sighs, again. He looks back at her. “I need someone reliable, if I’m going to start dating again. I’m too old to deal with this kind of drama.”

Bev nods. “He’ll apologise. I know he will - but I totally get that. I just want you to be happy.”

He smiles at her. “Thanks, Bev.”

He looks around the graveyard, and back at her. “I’ll understand if you want to get out of this place, we’ve been here way too long already, but can I show you something?”

“Alright, lead the way.”

***

Bev lets Mike lead her to another group of nicely maintained gravestones.

They’d spent so much time together, growing up. They’d talked about so much she thought there was nothing left to learn about each other. But she’d never seen this before.

He looks at them, a little wistfully, and then back to her. “Meet my parents, Jessica and Will. And my grandfather Leroy.”

“Oh,” she says softly. “Thanks for bringing me.”

He’s clearly been here recently, keeping them clean and replacing flowers. The headstones aren’t fancy – he was young when he lost them all, he probably wasn’t consulted nor would he have been able to afford anything nicer – but they still look nice, even after thirty-seven years. She’s not sure exactly when his grandfather died.

“You never showed me this, growing up. Why now?” she asks, looking back at him.

He looks pensive. “I thought coming here would be a bummer for you. And I didn’t go looking for their graves until I was about fifteen, anyway.” He looks back at her. “Probably sounds weird, but because we were here anyway – I thought I should…introduce you. You’re all my family, after all.”

She’s filled with affection for him, mingled with a sadness that – as much as she loved growing up with him, as much as she can’t imagine her youth without him there – he never got to grow up with his own family.

This fucking town, she thinks. _Electrical fault_, he’d once said was the official reason for the fire. But they knew better than that. Still, if Bowers’ father had anything to do with it, he’d certainly gotten his grisly comeuppance.

She thinks they would have loved him, would have been kind parents. She doesn’t know – she of all people knows that parents don’t always love you in the way they should – but she has a feeling they wouldn’t have been like that.

She takes his hand. “Thanks. It’s nice to meet them.” She looks at the graves. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to be raised by them.”

He holds her hand a little tighter, for a moment. “It’s ok,” he says, after a moment. “I got to be raised with you, so. Silver lining,” he says, wryly. 

She lets out a surprised little half-laugh. “That’s one way to look at it, I guess.”

She looks at the gravestone of Leroy Hanlon. “What do you think it would have been like, if your grandfather had ended up raising you?”

He looks thoughtful, more surprised. “I don’t know. Probably similar, but lonelier without a sibling. He had a farm, too. I don’t really remember it. Honestly, I barely remember living with him…from my vague memories I don’t remember him being all that warm.” He pauses. “Then again, he was dealing with both of my parents’ deaths, so. Can’t really blame him for being distant.”

“I suppose,” Bev agrees. “But so were you.”

Mike nods slowly. “True.” He pauses again. “I wish I’d known him longer, though. I only lived with him for about three years. He must have done so much of the farmwork on his own. Worked himself to an early heart attack. He might not have been warm, but he did take me in. That’s a big decision.”

“You were family, though,” Bev points out. “And then you went to Sackett Farm when you were six, right?”

“Right,” he says, and she wishes for the millionth time in her twenty-seven years of knowing him that he hadn’t lost so much, so many people that mattered to him. Her included, for a long time – she reminds herself that he asked her not to keep punishing herself over that. He was the Loser who’d lost the most. She squeezes his hand, and he squeezes hers.

“I think he’d be proud of you now, anyway. I think they all would,” she adds.

He sniffs, but he smiles at her. “Thanks, Bev. You wanna get out of here?”

“Please,” she says, smiling back.

As they’re walking out, Bev trips on something loose in the path. A small rock. She’s still holding Mike’s hand so she doesn’t totally fall, but she instinctively reaches out to grab a nearby headstone.

Reading the name on it, she hisses out a breath and pulls away from it like she’s been burned.

“What is it?” Mike says, immediately concerned.

The headstone is old, but not that old. Cheap-looking, and unadorned by much text. It’s not well-maintained, not like the Sacketts or the Hanlons’ headstones. There’s a small bit of graffiti on it. _Fucking good. _

“It’s Alvin,” she says, shortly.

He gasps softly. “Oh,” he says,

He’s colder than she’d been upon seeing his father’s gravestone.

He looks at her, empathetically. “We can go. He doesn’t need to take up any more space in your day, or your life.”

She takes a deep breath, trying to steel her thoughts. “I think – I think it’s a good thing we’re here now. I figured he was probably fucking dead, but it’s great to get that confirmation.” She glares at the headstone, breathing heavy. “Says he died in 2008. He hung on longer than I thought he would, but I’m not surprised Alcohol should have killed him way earlier but I think he was kept alive by pure spite. Though he would have been out of jail, by then. Who paid for this shitty headstone? Who else in the world gave enough of a shit about Alvin Marsh to want to remember him? Who’d fucking _want_ to –”

Suddenly, Mike puts his hands on her arms. “Bev, please. Take a breath.” He looks worried. His voice is calming, though.

She takes a breath and finds it jagged, and suddenly she’s crying. Angry tears, tears of rage and fear and hurt, and he holds her again. His coat is soft and warm.

She looks at him, feeling angry yet exhausted. “How do I…he’s in my _fucking head_, Mike! Even after all these years! That’s why I couldn’t, with Ben…He’s fucking _dead_ and he’s still ruining my life!”

Mike looks at her, anger and sorrow and hurt for her written across his face. “So let it out.”

“What?” she says, confused enough that her rage stops in its tracks.

He looks around. “There’s no one here. It’s not like we’re in the centre of town. If anyone hears us, I’ll cover you, but just – take some of the weight off. Scream at him. I’ll scream with you, if you want, you know I’ve got enough to go on,” he says, seriously. “I think it’d be good for you, Bev.”

She looks at him, curiously. “This is objectively insane, but…alright. Let’s do it. Let’s scream at nothing and hope we don’t…get arrested.”

Mike grins, just a little bitter. “Ah, you forget where you are. Nobody gives a shit around here.”

She gives him a meaningful look. “You’re right.”

She counts down from three, and takes a breath – and suddenly feels the buildup of fifteen years of painful abuse with Tom, and another thirteen years give or take with a madman, with someone who should have protected her – and lets out a scream of wordless rage and bone-deep hurt, something so buried inside her lungs she feels like she’s pouring it out bit by bit, in a steady stream.

She looks up at the sky as she does. She hears Mike’s somewhere next to her, something similar, and it chills her. He’s so _sad, _and she can’t fix it, and it’s awful. Stan _has _to apologise, surely. If he doesn’t want to, well, she got Richie to do it. Next to that, Stan would be easy.

She catches his eye, when they’re both finished. His eyes are watery, and hers feel the same, hot with everything she’s feeling.

“I’m so sorry,” she mouths at him. Somehow she can’t quite speak yet.

He smiles at her, sadly. “Back at you,” he mouths back.

“Tell him how you feel,” he says croakily.

She looks at him, and then at the headstone. She glares at it. Her throat is sore, but she’s going to fucking do this.

“You ruined my _fucking_ life, Al! You’re the reason I am the way I am! You’re the reason I sabotaged myself for so _fucking _long, went from bad guy to bad guy to worst guy, because I didn’t think I was _fucking worth anything_! And you did that!” she yells at the headstone, remembering his awful red, skinny face, tears falling quickly now. “You were supposed to protect me from the monsters, and instead you _were_ the fucking monster! You hurt me! I hate you so much for that, and I can _never _fucking forgive you, you pathetic piece of shit! It wasn’t my fault she left you! Although I _really_ fucking get why!”

She takes a gulp of air, realising she’s now shaking with rage. “And I refuse to keep letting you do this to me,” she says hoarsely, no longer yelling. “You’re not even here. I used to think you were so big, you were unstoppable, but you died a small, bitter man. I’m not keeping you alive any longer.”

She turns away from the grave, and looks at Mike. His eyes are watery, and there are tear tracks on his face but he smiles at her anyway, proudly. “Come here,” he says, and she sighs with relief, collapsing into the hug once again. He hugs her tightly, and she hugs him back. Maybe they’re both trying to make up for each other’s pain. They can’t wish it away, but they can help each other with it, the way they used to.

He looks at her, letting her go. “I’m…I’ll never _not _be angry at what you’ve been through. But I’m very proud that you did that. Do you feel any better?”

She thinks about it. “Yeah, actually. I mean I feel emotionally exhausted _again_, and kind of hollowed out, but in a good way?”

“Well, if it’s in a good way, then,” Mike says knowingly, half-smiling.

“I guess the hard part is getting it to stick, right?” she says, wryly.

Mike nods, and looks at her kindly. “About not keeping him alive? I think you just take it day by day. And if it’s too much, you can call me. Or any one of us, but _especially _me. Any time.”

She feels herself tearing up a little, and wipes her eyes. “You really are the best, Mike. Whatever happens, I just – I want you to be happy. Whether you’re with someone or not.”

He smiles, and she wishes it wasn’t quite so tinged with sadness. “You too, Bev. That’s the most important thing. If you need to come somewhere, if you need a place to crash for a while – I’m here.”

She smiles, “You don’t know what it means to hear that. I’ll let you know.”

He smiles, a little brighter. “Wanna get out of here now?”

“God, definitely,” she says, taking his hand.

***

Stan is picking up coffee for himself and Richie, when he turns around and almost spills them over the last person he wants to see right now.

_He’d probably deserve it_, he thinks vindictively and then immediately takes it back. He doesn’t think that, not really. He doesn’t want Bill to get hurt, obviously. The whole – whatever, it’s not bothering him. He’s just really not in the mood to look at Bill’s face right now.

Although it’s looking a little more rumpled than usual this morning. He’s also wearing sunglasses indoors. He looks deadened, but upon seeing Stan he smiles weakly. “S-stan! Careful, you almost gave m-me third-degree burns there.”

“Sorry…didn’t see you,” Stan says, unable to keep the dry note of his voice. “Are you trying to go incognito?”

Bill’s mouth is a confused line, until he puts a hand to his sunglasses, and smiles embarrassedly. He takes them off. “Yep, sounds about r-right. I’m not r-really with it this morning, in case you can’t tell,” he says, sheepishly.

_Because you were drunk last night, _he thinks, and unwillingly sees a flash of the kiss in his mind. “Yeah, you don’t look great.” He’s not lying. Bill looks very hungover. Especially without the sunglasses, his eyes look lined and tired.

Bill chuckles, mock-offended. “Thanks, man.”

“Hangover?” Stan says, and definitely doesn’t enjoy the way Bill winces at the word.

Bill nods. “You guys make me f-forget I can’t drink like t-that anymore. I keep t-thinking I’m still seventeen,” he says, grinning ruefully.

Stan looks at him, and feels irritated. “Well, you’re not.”

Bill’s smile falters. He looks back at Stan, confused, something nervous in his eyes. “Is everything alright, S-stan?”

“Fine,” Stan says, flatly.

Bill stares at him, still sort of smiling, but his eyes are growing steadily more concerned. “I didn’t really see you after I left your p-place yesterday morning. H-how’d you go after that?” His eyes are searching. “I remember you and M-mike were keen to do that p-painting thing…h-how did you guys go with that?”

He’s being careful. Mike probably told him about what happened, while they were cosying up together last night. The thought makes him feel both queasy and annoyed.

Stan’s hands tense on the coffees he’s holding. “We finished it. Wasn’t hard.” He refuses to give Bill any more than that, because he’s gotta just be fishing for Stan’s take at this point.

There’s an awkward silence. Bill looks ever more confused and worried. “You know, you can t-talk to me if you –“

“So, I’ve got to get these back to Richie or he’ll go feral, you know him and mornings,” Stan says quickly. “See you later.”

He attempts to leave, but Bill follows him.

“Wait, Stan!” he calls, taken aback.

Stan makes it out of the shop before Bill blocks him. “What are you doing?” he says irritably.

“Trying to talk to you, m-man!” Bill says, frustratedly. “I don’t understand w-why you’re so annoyed at m-me right now?”

Stan tries to reply, fails the first time he opens his mouth, and tries again. “I’m not annoyed at you. I just need to get these coffees home before they go cold.”

Bill stares at him, confused. “Yeah, f-for Richie. Aren’t you f-fighting with him?”

He feels the nonsensical and very rare urge to defend Richie, even though they absolutely were in a terrible, painful fight until last night. “No, you’re out of the loop. Richie was drunk, and he messed up, but we talked it out, and he apologised very kindly. He was actually very supportive last night.”

Bill looks curious, and vaguely nervous again. “W-well that’s…good. I’m glad to hear it,” he says slowly, not moving out of the way.

Stan stares at him. “Don’t you have coffee to buy?”

Bill waves a hand. “No, I can cope f-for now, and Audra’s asleep f-for a while longer I think – “ he says, absently. “This is m-more important.”

Stan didn’t think he could be more horribly shocked than yesterday, but of course this is happening too. It’s like a bad twist from one of Bill’s books. “Audra’s here?”

Bill visibly pales, and nods. “Yeah, she decided to surprise m-me late last night. It’s n-not great timing, to be honest. I w-wouldn’t have gotten so _goddamn _drunk if I’d known.” He does seem guilty. Maybe that’s just because Stan knows what he’s looking for.

This proves to be the final straw, for Stan. “Yeah, I bet you wouldn’t have done a lot of things,” he snaps.

Bill truly looks shocked, and even guiltier. “How did…” he starts, and then his voice dies. He tries again. “Can w-we talk? Is there somewhere we can go that’s p-private?”

Stan looks anywhere that isn’t him. He looks down at the coffees. “I – “

“Stan, _p_-_please,_” he says, pained and Stan hates it but it strikes a nerve with him. “Just l-let me explain.”

Stan sighs, annoyed. “Did you drive here?”

Bill shakes his head.

“Damn. Alright, come on. We can sit in my car. It’s as private as we’re gonna get.” 

Bill looks relieved, even though he still seems anxious and guilty. Stan leads the way back to his car, glaring at the coffees he’s holding. Seems like he’s not getting these back to Richie.

*

Stan sits in the front seat, and doesn’t look at Bill. It’s a weird way to have a conversation, side by side in a stationary car – but it works for him. Means he doesn’t have to look directly at Bill while having this particular conversation, which is a small blessing.

He sneaks a look at Bill anyway. Bill is staring ahead, looking very pale and tired. _Well, it was your choice to get drunk and spend the time you should’ve been sleeping doing – _He firmly stops his thoughts in their tracks.

The other coffee he has in the cupholder is going to go cold before he gets it to Richie, but he’s not going to give it to Bill. It’s not his fault Bill is hungover.

“Well?” he asks shortly.

Bill nods, and then swears and rubs his eyes. “Fuck, my h-head is on fire.”

He looks so forlorn. Stan looks at the surplus coffee, and swears under his breath. He picks it up and holds it out to Bill. “Ok, just take it, fuck’s sake. You should be grateful Richie couldn’t get one of those whipped-cream frappuccino monstrosities here, though. No milk.”

Bill looks like he’s being handed the holy grail. “That’s f-fine, I survive on b-black coffee. Oh my god, Stan, t-thankyou.”

Stan frowns. “I’m not doing it to be nice. Just no sense wasting money on it.”

Bill nods, cupping the container protectively. “Understood.”

He takes a sip and closes his eyes blissfully.

“Alright, we’re in private, you’ve got coffee, you’ve got some explaining to do,” Stan starts, impatiently.

Bill sighs, and opens his eyes. “Yep.” He looks at Stan. “I h-have to ask, w-what did you see? And…h-how?”

Stan feels a flash of irritation. “You know, you were pretty publicly making out. So, I don’t think it matters why I was there. Anyone could’ve seen you.”

Bill groans quietly. “I know, alright. I guess if someone sells p-pictures I’ll know soon enough. I’m just hoping p-people don’t give enough of a shit about m-me around here to care.”

“Did you even think about Mike?” Stan continues, frustrated. “You can just up and leave if it gets awkward for you here. He doesn’t have that choice.”

Bill looks at him, curiously. “Ok, b-but he’s also an adult, Stan. He’s lived here his whole life, and he m-might not be throwing any p-parades, but he’s not hiding it. Hiding’s never really b-been an option f-for him.”

Stan looks down, embarrassed. It’s true. But the old dread at the idea of being openly queer in this town still has its claws in his gut, he can’t totally let it go. If anything ever happened to Mike because of it –

“OK, yeah. But what about your wife?” he says, not finished.

Bill winces over the top of his coffee. “Yeah, I kn-know. I fucked up there. And n-now she’s here.”

Stan glares at him. “This is what I don’t fucking _get _about you, Bill. Are you not in love with her?”

Bill pales even more and shakes his head. “No, no, J-jesus! Of c-course I’m in love w-with her!” he immediately corrects, guiltily.

Stan doesn’t say anything for a beat. “That’s what I don’t get. Why you’d…do _that_. Even drunk. I never would’ve -” he breaks off, disbelievingly.

“B-because I’m not a v-very good husband, ok? I know that,” Bill snaps. “But not all of us meet our s-soulmates at nineteen, alright?”

There’s a silence. Stan glares down at his coffee.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have b-brought up…” Bill says, apologetically.

“It’s alright, I was going to,” Stan says, quietly. “I don’t really want to go into the whole thing again, but I’m just going to say to you right now: if you really do love her, if you want to keep being with her, then you can’t…take her for granted like this, Bill.” He stares down at his coffee, then looks up and out of the windscreen. People are milling about, although most others are probably in school or working. “I never did anything like that to Patty. For _twenty years_, I never wanted anything other than to be married to her until I died. I thought as long as we both stayed healthy, and didn’t treat each other badly, that would happen. And after all of that, it fucking didn’t.”

There’s a pause. “You’ve don’t have to tell m-me, but…why?”

Stan looks at Bill. Bill looks genuinely sorry for him, not even in a pitying way. He kind of hates it, because he’s not done being annoyed at Bill, and it’s kind of hard when he has that look in his unfairly bright eyes.

“Long, painful story short,” he tries, trying not to sound like his voice is tightening at the mere mention. “You’ve heard of immovable object meets unstoppable force?”

Bill’s eyebrows quirk slightly, but he nods.

“Something like that. She had a – brilliant job opportunity that she couldn’t refuse, and in a cruel twist of fate, said opportunity would most likely have split us up one way or another. But also not taking it might have. I really – I really don’t know,” he says, and his voice catches at the last moment, and he winces. This has to get easier at some point. He looks away at the people outside again, wonders if they’re going to work. What they’re carrying around with them.

“I’m – I’m r-really sorry, Stan,” Bill says, saddened.

“Thanks,” Stan says, quietly. He looks at Bill again. “I – what I’m saying is, we were in love, right up to the end. It didn’t stop it ending. Sometimes I wish it had – worked out differently. But it happened, and if you really do love your wife,” he says, looking at Bill very seriously. His eyes are starting to sting again. “If you actually want to be with her, you have to – treasure what you have already. And you _have _to tell her what happened. And then hope like hell she forgives you… I can’t be with mine, but you still have a chance with yours. If you’re honest about it. And honest about what you want.”

Bill looks guilty, and tired as he drinks his coffee. “I know. You’re r-right, thanks.” He sighs. “I know b-being drunk isn’t an excuse, b-but last night s-sort of just happened. M-mike and I-”

Stan nods, suddenly annoyed again. “Mike and you?” he says angrily, too quickly. “I’m sorry, but there it is. The other part of this that just – sucks. I’m here, trying to keep your marriage from falling apart, but if it doesn’t, where does that leave Mike? You think he feels great right now? Do you – do you even have any feelings for him, or is he just going to feel super used if – when you go back to your wife? God, I can’t _believe _you have a wife, that you apparently _love_, and you _still_ drunkenly slept with maybe our – _kindest_ friend, fuck’s _sake _Bill –“

Bill has been watching this torrent guiltily, unable to get a word in, but he holds up his hands, looking suddenly confused and almost – shocked. “Wait, wait, wait, s-slow down, h-hold up, s-slept with?” he says, with horrified bafflement. “No-one s-slept with anyone! Didn’t you s-see?”

Stan looks at him, bewildered. “What?”

Bill looks even more confused. “Y-you said y-you saw us!” he says, agitating his stutter. “We d-definitely kissed for a b-bit, I feel guilty enough about that, b-but it d-didn’t go further than that, Jesus! She d-definitely wouldn’t forgive _that_.”

Stan stares at him. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. Seeing them kiss was, honestly, painful, but worse was trying not to think about whether it had gone any further. Trying to convince himself that they were adults, and he wasn’t dating either of them, so it was fine (except for the cheating part), but it hadn’t totally taken. He kind of hates the relief that’s flooded his body, because nothing’s changed. Mike still might get his heart broken. He might have secretly been in love with Bill for years, who knows? That thought hurts more than he means it to.

He untwists his tongue, finally. “I – I wasn’t going to, like, keep watching you make out like some kind of creep! I never meant to even – see you in the first place. It was all Richie’s goddamn fault, he was the one who said we should go to Mike’s because he couldn’t ignore me in person!”

Bill colours. “Oh God, Richie w-was there too?” he says, groans, and covers his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes.

Stan side-eyes him. “Yeah, I really don’t think he was judging, Bill,” he reminds him, drily. As kids, they’d never been brave enough to say it about Richie, or indeed whatever Richie-and-Eddie was. It was like it was some kind of betrayal if they definitively named what they already knew, but they found ways to talk around it. Well, for most of their childhood they just thought it was normal boy-obnoxiousness, but after a while they got it. And it was hard to ignore. Maybe they recognised more about it than they knew.

Bill drops his hands and nods. “Yeah…I guess not,” he concedes, sheepishly.

There’s a slightly-less awkward silence.

“You w-were coming to apologise…for w-whatever you did to upset Mike…” Bill says, slowly. “W-what did you s-say to him?”

“It’s kind of – “ Stan starts, uncomfortably, and stops. “Wait, he didn’t tell you?”

Bill shakes his head, and looks at Stan curiously, in a way he doesn’t like. He’s looking a little too investigative. “He wouldn’t s-say, he kept s-saying he couldn’t…” Bill stops, and thinks back. Presumably, it’s harder to remember with all the alcohol hazing his memories.

Stan feels even worse, and yet also strangely touched, because of course Mike didn’t do that. Mike would’ve been within his rights to bitterly tell Bill about it, about how much of an asshole Stan had been to him. The horrible things he’d insinuated. He can’t help wincing. But of course he did. He’s too good.

Bill looks at him shrewdly. “He kept saying he w-wouldn’t do that to y-you. I could tell he needed someone to talk to, but w-whatever it was he kept saying it w-wouldn’t be _fair _to y-you…to tell me…”

Stan’s heart is beating a little too fast. This is going to get even more awkward very soon. He wants out of this goddamn car.

He can’t help looking at Bill. Bill’s curiosity changes to dawning horror, as the colour drains from his face again. “Oh no…I’m m-missing something b-big here, aren’t I?”

Stan looks away, looks down. The seconds stretch out. Then, in a very small movement, he nods.

“You…and Mike? When? You said you never c-cheated on Patty, and you met her in like, sophomore year of c-college, right?” Bill asks, puzzled. He still seems mortified, but like his curiosity is currently winning out.

Stan tries to start, swallows, and finds his voice. “It was a long time ago,” he says, unable to get much louder than a stage whisper. “And not for very long. I wouldn’t have expected you to notice anything that last summer though. You and Bev were so focused on your own stuff. That’s not a dig, by the way. I understood.” His voice is tight again, but not too painfully.

Bill nods. “The summer b-before college?” he says, and pauses. “You’re probably right. I – I noticed you b-both were w-weirdly b-busy, or slipping off, now I think about it – I didn’t have the time to w-wonder about it, though. I did w-wonder why you were taking being dumped so w-well, though.”

Stan nods. “Yeah, it was kind of…just after that. We were pretty stealthy,” he says, drily. “Even Bev didn’t pick up on it until this weekend.”

Bill almost smiles. A quarter-smile, maybe. “Makes sense. Apart from y-you, she was d-definitely the most observant of us.” 

Stan nods.

“You stayed f-friends longer than all of us, though…Bev and I tried to stay f-friends and it f-fell apart in f-freshman year. It was too – painful. Why?” Bill asks.

Stan shrugs, feeling suddenly guilty again. “Because I’m… selfish. And then because we almost pretended it had never –” he cuts off and takes a breath. “It was like we had an unspoken agreement to not bring it up again. And then I met Patty, and by then it was almost normal again between us, and I sort of forgot you’re not supposed to stay friends with your ex because he was my friend for _years _before he was that, so why should that ruin our friendship? And I guess – it wasn’t like I had any desire to cheat on Pat, I just… couldn’t lose touch with him entirely. I mean, I didn’t want that with any of you, but it was easier with him because the rest of you were always so busy. He was just kind of settled here.”

Bill shakes his head. “You’re not selfish, Stan. It’s kind of amazing that y-your friendship hung on so long, I’m p-proud. God knows I never m-managed it. I’m sorry for that, again.”

Stan looks at him, and feels suddenly grateful. “You’re here now. That’s a pretty big deal to me.”

Bill smiles a little, looking happier than he has since bumping into each other this morning. “Thanks. And I’m r-really sorry I’ve…unwittingly gotten in the m-middle of whatever’s – whatever’s g-going on with you g-guys. It was just a – drunken m-mistake.”

Stan frowns. “Thanks, Bill. It’s not really – your fault, though. At least you were drunk when you fucked up. I can’t really claim that.”

“Ah, yeah,” Bill says, sympathetic. He waits a beat. “Can I ask w-what happened now? Mike seemed p-pretty torn up about it. I was kind of w-worried.”

Stan covers his face with his hand and pinches the bridge of his nose. He sighs. “I guess I did yell at you for your fuck-up. You deserve the chance to yell at me for mine.” He groans, and removes his hand. “I was so _angry_ at Richie, and Mike was unlucky enough to be nearby. Or maybe it was because it _was_ him. We kind of had a, sort of moment before Richie –“ He shakes his head, interrupting himself. “Either way, I accused him of opportunistically flirting with me while I’m vulnerable, and that’s why I would get it if he never wants to see me again.”

Bill takes a breath. “I see. But you didn’t m-mean it, right?” 

“Obviously not,” Stan replies sharply, then relents. “Sorry. No, I didn’t. I just started to feel so - I’m just an asshole.”

Bill shakes his head. “You’re n-not. We’re all a bit – fucked up, right n-now, I think.”

Stan lets out a bitter chuckle. “I’ll say.”

Bill looks at him. “Look, I think if y-you apologise honestly, he’s not going to stay m-mad. We know him. When has he ever stayed m-mad at any of us? I mean, all the shit Richie used to p-pull?” he says, with a chuckle.

Stan half-grins. “That’s true. I don’t think he was ever quite _this _shitty, though,” he says, and his grin fades.

Bill waits a beat. “This might be p-pushing it – I d-don’t want to bring it up more than you n-need to hear about it, but last night –“ Stan tenses. “I d-don’t think I was the only one who was feeling rejected and lonely and…reaching out for s-someone comforting and convenient. He was the one who s-stopped it – and s-soberly, I’m very glad he d-did – and he said he d-didn’t want to d-destroy our friendship, and that I n-needed to work out what I wanted, and those are b-both valid reasons…b-but I d-don’t think they were the only reasons he thought he’d regret it in the morning.” Bill looks at him, apologetic. “I really am sorry I stopped you apologising, though.”

Stan doesn’t know what to say. _Mike_ stopped it. But probably for those two main reasons. Probably. He can’t help the weird bubble of hope in his stomach that’s just blossomed. He tries to keep a hold on it. “Uh, even if you’d gone home before…that, he still would have been trashed. Maybe not the best time anyway.” 

Bill grins, a little. “True.”

There’s a quiet in the car, but it’s no longer uncomfortable. Stan struggles not to say what’s on his mind, and loses the battle. “So you don’t – you don’t have…” Stan sighs, feeling his cheeks warming up. “You’re definitely not in love with him, or anything?”

Bill looks surprised, and shakes his head. “No,” he says, and looks at Stan. “I m-mean, I do love him.” He smiles in an odd, but unmistakably warm way. “I love you, too. I wouldn’t be h-here if I didn’t, you know? I love all you guys. But I’m not _in love _with M-mike, no. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think h-he is with me.”

Stan can’t help but smile. “I really am glad you’re here.”

Bill smiles too. “Me too.”

Stan is struck by another thought. “You said you were feeling rejected, last night…who did you want him to be?”

Bill colours. Stan doesn’t have to ask, he just knows. “Did something happen with her, then?”

Bill sighs. “Ok, but don’t yell at me again b-because I already know, she stopped it, and I’m g-going to tell Audra. We d-drank, we almost kissed last night – which she stopped because we’ve both g-got our own shit to d-deal with, so I d-don’t think she’s still in love with me either – and then I went to clear my head, ended up at the b-bar in town, and you know the rest.”

Stan processes this. “So you’re…zero for two childhood friends, then?” he deadpans.

Bill groans. “It w-wasn’t a great night for my ego.”

Stan starts laughing, and Bill looks indignant for a moment then starts laughing too.

“Ah, fuck,” Bill says, wiping his eyes. “She’s m-met Audra too. Apparently she and Eddie helped her find m-my room. And then I got home, t-trashed and embarrassed and guilty to find my wife h-hanging out with m-my drunk childhood friend and drunk high-school ex-girlfriend, and I still don’t know what was said except I’m sure Bev didn’t t-tell her about us because I didn’t sleep in the h-hallway last night.”

Stan lets out a low whistle. “God. Messy night.” He thinks about it. “Messy day, honestly.”

Bill nods emphatically. “Yeah I m-missed all of it and then p-proceeded to have a dramatically m-messy night.”

Stan chuckles. “Yeah, I mean, obviously as your friend I want everything to work out for you…but as your friend whose life is a hot mess, currently, I appreciate that you’re here making bad decisions in real time to make me feel better.”

Bill laughs, ruefully. “Only for you, m-man. I heard you were in need of cheering up, and I thought, w-well m-my life is too perfect right now, I’m feeling too w-well adjusted as an adult. That, plus m-my career success w-will probably just m-make him feel terrible, I’ve gotta start m-making w-worse decisions, and quick.”

Stan laughs, and reaches over to swat at Bill’s shoulder. Leaning back into his seat, he thinks. “Can I ask you something? Without judgement, this time?”

Bill chuckles again. “I’m not sure you can m-manage it, but sure.”

Stan flips him the bird, grinning in spite of himself. “You tried to hook up with two people last night, but you say you’re definitely in love with your wife. Do you even…” he hesitates. “One might be a mistake, but two? If you’re actually in love with her, why…do that?” he asks, trying to be as genuine as possible.

Bill sighs deeply. “Ah, fuck. This w-was a lot easier to explain when I was drunk and not hungover, but…I thought I’d w-worked out last night that w-we weren’t a good couple. Not because w-we don’t love each other, but because w-we don’t talk to each other. W-we never really talk about our own stuff, because it’s easier that w-way, but it means w-we don’t really…get each other. And maybe w-we’d be happier w-with other people…w-which is, drunkenly, w-where I started looking for comfort elsewhere. W-with Bev it was about the past, sure, but w-with Mike I think I w-was maybe…testing a possible future? But I’m glad it didn’t go anywhere, because of everything else I’ve said, and I guess I w-wouldn’t w-want to start a new thing off with cheating in such a big w-way. Audra d-doesn’t deserve that.” He looks out the window, looking tired again. “But then – then I saw her last night, and I just felt a hundred times w-worse because it was like, how did I convince myself I didn’t w-want her? I fucking – I fucking _love _her, Stan. I’m a shitty husband, and we have our problems, but I realised – w-way too fucking late in the night – that I don’t want to lose her –“ he breaks off, shaking his head. “I don’t know w-what to do.”

Stan looks at him, pained and seriously empathetic.

“Speaking as someone with some experience in this arena...if worst comes to worst, and she leaves you, you'll survive. For one, you’ve got all of us. We’ll be there for you, man. But if you want any chance of saving it, you have to actually talk to her. Real talk.”

Bill pales a little but nods, grimly determined. “Right. Real talk.”

He’s quiet for a moment, looking straight ahead.

Something occurs to Stan.

“Does she know?”

Bill is silent.

Stan looks at him. “Have you ever told her what happened, 1988-89? That summer?”

Bill doesn’t move for a moment, not looking at him. He looks exhausted, and it’s the first time Stan takes in the lines around his eyes, and the grey streak in his hair, and realises how the stress of keeping all of it in, of trying to keep all of the plates spinning while not talking about everything he keeps repressed – how that’s aging him. Lucky for him, he just looks distinguished and handsome (if a little tired) right now, but another few years of this pressure might not be so kind.

He shakes his head suddenly. “No,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh,” Stan says, softly.

He doesn’t want to slip too far into therapist mode here – _have you considered that repressing your trauma is creating a distance between you and your wife _– but he has to be a bit clinical, because otherwise he’s going to give into the emotional gut punch of it all, the pain of what Bill’s been shouldering alone for years, the unfairness and cruelty of it. And he doubts that would be helpful right now.

“It’s kind of a big part of you, Bill,” he says, carefully as he can.

Bill doesn’t reply for a moment. “I know what y-you’re thinking, S-stan. But I just didn’t…” he breaks off, and looks at Stan, pained. “Y-you don’t know what it was like to have s-someone like her interested in me. You know me – you know that I’m a just a big nerd with a fucking s-stutter –” he says, ruefully.

Stan grins a little. “Of course. That’s what we love, though.”

Bill smiles, a little happier for a moment. His expression clouds again. “But I worked on the s-stutter, at least, and lost it – or fucking th-thought I did – and I was s-successful and that _s-should _have been enough, but it – wasn’t. I was in my early thirties and I wanted to s-settle down. And then I met her.”

He pauses a moment. “She w-was just – funny, and beautiful, and fucking _cool, _and I thought there was no w-way this twenty-five-year-old actress is into me, not w-when she could have anyone hotter, anyone younger. But she w-was, I guess, impressed by me for some reason. She w-wasn’t that w-well-known then, and I w-was older, and p-people knew my books…” he trails off, biting his lip. He looks back at Stan, like he’s working something out.

“The way she l-looked at me then, it was addictive. I never wanted to be the asshole that only l-likes someone because they’re young and h-hot, or because they make me feel superior, but it wasn’t even l-like that with us…she was impressed by me, sure, but I was quickly _completely_ enchanted by h-her. “

He pauses, thoughtfully. “She’s smart as h-hell, she challenged me to do better with my work. It made me want to be this, l-like, well-adjusted person who seemingly h-had his shit together. And we got on _so well, _we barely ever fought, we were _so _into each other_, _it just felt l-like, why ruin it with all that crap? She didn’t need to take all that on. And I didn’t want to – scare her off. I mean, it wasn’t just h-her. I didn’t tell people after I left Maine, you know? If they asked, I said I h-had parents who were divorced. Just – that,” he says, and his breath hitches. He shakes his head.

“It’s not like Audra talks that much about h-her past either. She was raised by a single mom, and she doesn’t talk about h-her that much, either…”he trails off again, and sighs. “All of that…traumatic bullshit, it’s only ever made people l-look at me differently. Pityingly. Or like, that kid’s the one whose b-b-b-” he breaks off, breathing hard. “I didn’t want h-her to l-look at me l-like that, it’d – it’d never be the same.” 

Stan considers this. He looks at Bill, feeling a painful empathy. “Yeah, I really...understand that. But…did you tell her about us? We’re…part of that fabric. There was that awful time, and we’re a part of it. How do you explain us without talking about that?”

Bill shakes his head. “Of course I told her about you guys! I just didn’t w-want her to think I w-was some kind of, fucked-up –“

“Loser?” Stan supplies, dryly.

Bill goes silent, chastened.

Stan softens. “I get it, Bill. I was _determined _to repress a lot of stuff when I left. Turns out, that wasn’t a great idea for my future relationship. Surprisingly. But you know what I did, after countless panic attacks and nightmares and a few fights over them?”

“What?” Bill asks, unsure.

Stan looks at him, seriously.

“I told her, Bill. And I was fucking _terrified _it would be too much for her, that she’d look at me differently. And you know what? It _was _different after that. _Better. _From then on, we were so strong. Because we knew each other’s worst moments, we stopped keeping things from each other.” He pauses, looking ahead for a moment, and then back. “Mostly, I guess. But it was a fucking brilliant marriage, even though it’s over. I don’t regret a moment. We don’t hate each other. We were able to be honest with each other enough to consider something – something like her taking that job – instead of just, falling apart over quiet, built-up resentment. Telling her was the best thing I ever did.” Stan breathes out, watches Bill’s reaction.

Bill keeps his gaze for a moment then looks away. He sniffs. “I –“ he starts, voice tight. “I don’t know _h-how, _Stan.”

He struggles for the words. Stan gives him the time to find them.

Bill’s eyes are watering. “I can’t j-just tell her about a b-b-brother I’ve n-never mentioned –” He cuts himself off. “It’s t-too fucking b-big, you know?” His face works for a moment, and he looks at Stan helplessly. “Fucking all of it, S-Stan – B-bob Gray and – and – w-what w-we w-went through. I don’t know how to c-cope w-with it w-without you guys!”

Stan feels his eyes getting hot with tears again. “I get it, Bill,” he says again, trying to stop his voice from shaking. He holds up one of his arms, still hidden under a long-sleeve. “Believe me. But you can’t just – try and pretend it didn’t happen,” he says, weakly. “That he never even existed. Isn’t that kind of…unfair, to him?”

Bill’s face crumples. Stan’s crying silently too, now, but he reaches out and holds Bill’s hand across the console.

He squeezes and Bill holds on tightly.

“I just – I thought it w-would be a lot easier at this p-point. I’ve lived longer n-now w-without him than w-with him. You’re a th-therapist, w-why isn’t it easier?” Bill implores, emotion making his stutter worse.

Stan nods, sniffling. “Bill, I wish I could – make it easier for you. I’ve had patients I’ve seen for years, dealing with the deaths of loved ones. I don’t really think it goes away, it just…you get stronger, better at holding it. It’s always easier, though, if you share it.”

Bill sobs. “Dad, y-you know, b-but he just…I can’t b-believe he just fucking _forgot _him. He has his n-new life. N-new family. Goddamn s-stepkids. He abandoned us w-way b-before the divorce.”

Stan can’t help it, he pulls him into an awkward hug over the console. Bill doesn’t resist, just holds onto him.

“I’m sorry your dad didn’t know how to deal with it. Mine didn’t either, but I never went through what you and your dad did,” he says, letting him go. “They weren’t equipped to deal with it.”

Bill wipes his eyes. “That’s for fucking sure.”

Stan looks at him, empathetically. “But if you don’t want to be like our dads, you gotta let Audra in. You gotta let her know. And then you go from there.”

Bill sniffs. “What if s-she can’t h-handle it either?”

Stan looks at him, seriously. “You’ll be ok. You’ve got us. We’ll make sure you’re ok. I definitely will.”

Bill looks at him, watery-eyed and with a strange sort of burning gratitude. “I l-love you, you know?” He smiles, weakly. “I’m glad I talked to y-you in first grade. It was d-definitely one of my b-better decisions.”

Stan is surprised into a nostalgic smile, throat still a little constricted. “Thanks. I’m glad you took a chance on the weird, shy Jewish kid who was obsessed with birds. I have a feeling I wouldn’t have met the others without it. So, I love you too, man.”

Bill smiles, a little stronger. “Remember how j-jealous Richie was for the first few w-weeks you sat w-with us?”

Stan chuckles lightly. “Wanted you all to himself.”

Bill keeps smiling. Stan feels heartened by it.

He remembers something suddenly, down memory lane of the early eighties. “Tell me if you want me to shut up, but I remembered something about Georgie.”

Bill looks interested though, just a little sad in his eyes. He nods.

“Remember how he used to draw pictures for us when he was like, four or five? He drew birds on mine because he knew I liked them. I don’t know how he even remembered it.”

Bill smiles wistfully, misty-eyed again. “Yeah, I r-remember. Creative k-kid. He always loved m-making things for p-people.”

Stan sniffs, smiling weakly. “He was a good kid.”

Bill nods. “He would have b-been so good in the world, y-you know? He’d b-be thirty-five now…p-probably have kids. A w-wife.” He pauses for thought, and amends. “Or a husband.”

Stan smiles. “I think he’d have been like me, maybe. Boringly monogamous. He had a lot of love.”

Bill smiles, sniffs. Rubs his eyes. “He did.”

It’s quiet.

“I guess it’s b-been long enough that m-my wife will th-think I’ve skipped town without her, b-but I’m gonna t-tell her,” Bill says, wryly.

Stan smiles. “Yeah, I’m sure Richie’s sent me five hundred texts, but this was more important. I’m glad you’re doing that, Bill. You’re stronger than you think.”

Bill smiles. “Back atcha, Stan.” He looks at the empty coffee cups. “We should p-probably buy n-new coffees f-for them, though.”

Stan chuckles, having forgotten about the reason he came. “True. He’s probably annoyed enough I’m not back yet with the coffee. Don’t want to go back empty handed, he might murder me.”

Bill chuckles. “Can y-you drop me off after w-we get them?” he asks.

Stan looks at him, smiling. “Of course. I’m here for you. Feel free to come to mine after, if you need to.”

Bill looks at him gratefully. “I’m so glad w-we’re still friends, man.”

“Me too,” he says, and they turn to finally get out of the car.

***

Bill walks back up to his room at the guesthouse, heart pounding. Stan had psyched him up before he’d gotten dropped off, but it’s cold hard reality without the comforting presence of a friend.

He unlocks the door, one handed, coffee in the other.

Audra is sitting on the bed, watching TV. She gives him a truly dirty look when he comes in. It’s not a great start, but he’s got to work with it now.

“You’re back! I was starting to think that I was never going to see you again. I guess small town coffee shops do crazier business on a Monday than I would’ve expected?” she says, dryly.

“B-busier than you’d think –” he starts, and stops at her raised eyebrow. “B-but that’s not all of it,” he admits.

Her eyes narrow a little.

He holds her coffee out to her. “It’s h-hot, I swear. P-please take it.”

She looks suspicious. “Where’s yours?”

“I drank it.”

She lets out an annoyed _tuh _noise. “Of course you did. Thanks for taking the time to enjoy your drink at the café before you came back. Also, thanks for the several texts and calls I’ve obviously missed, explaining what the hell took you so long.”

He looks at her, apologetic. “I’m sorry, really. I’ve b-been an asshole. I’m going to explain, I p-promise, but can you take the coffee, Aud?”

She hesitates, still annoyed.

He smiles, sheepishly, shaking it gently. “B-best coffee in town.”

“Then it must be great,” she deadpans, but takes it off him. She takes a sip. “Alright, that’s not bad.” She looks grudgingly grateful. “Thanks for the coffee, I guess. You said something about explaining what the hell’s been going on with you lately?”

He looks at her, and his heart feels like it’s beating so loud in his ears that he wonders that she can’t hear it.

He takes a breath, then decides he needs to sit on the bed. He looks at her. She’s wearing thick, colourfully patterned bedsocks that he’s momentarily distracted by. He’s sure she doesn’t own anything like that. She looks very cute in them. He feels a pang of affection for her, followed by guilt.

She looks suspicious. “Why are you being weird, Bill? Just tell me, ok?”

“I’m not – I’m not being w-weird,” he tries, nervous, but she gives him a look. “I’m just trying to f-figure out, how to –”

Her suspicion becomes concern suddenly, even though the suspicion is still there behind it. “I thought your stutter was a drunk thing, but you’re doing it a lot…are you…” she breaks off, searching his face for clues. “Is it a symptom of something? Are you…sick?”

His stomach jumps, and he shakes his head. “Oh God, n-no! I’m n-not, I’m fine, d-definitely n-not sick!” 

She takes a relieved breath, and then the suspicion settles again in her expression. “So, what is it then?” she says, warily. The voice of someone who is realising that satisfying one worry only means supplanting it with another.

“Well, I h-had a stutter w-when I grew up h-here,” he starts. It’s the easiest thing to explain first. “Few years w-with a speech p-pathologist my agent set me up w-with, I lost it. Before I met you.”

Audra looks warily curious. “Why is it back then?”

He pauses. “I think it’s suh-suh-psycho –” he tries, and stops, grimacing. “I hate that w-word. It’s in m-my head,” he says, pointing at his temple. “It’s b-because I’m here. In D-derry.”

She looks sympathetic, despite being mad at him. “Why?”

He looks down, because her being nice to him right now is worse than her being annoyed. “There’s a r-reason I’ve never brought y-you here. I h-hate this _fucking _town, Audra. B-being here I feel thirteen y-years old again.”

There’s a silence. “Why? What happened when you were thirteen?” Audra asks, quiet but increasingly worried.

He gulps, heart hammering. He’s not sure he can even do this. He feels her hand on his.

“Babe?” she asks, softly.

He feels a shock of guilt. He can’t go through all of this with her – all of the emotion of it – and _then _tell her what he did last night. It’ll seem like he told her about it all to manipulate her into feeling bad for him before she can be properly mad at him for what he did. He won’t allow anyone to think he’d ever use that story for anything like that. He wouldn’t do that to Georgie, or any of them.

He pulls his hand away, and looks back at her, unavoidably guilty.

She looks hurt, shrinking back. “What the _fuck _is going on with you, Bill?”

He takes a breath, rubs his face and looks back at her. “Alright. S-something happened here, and I’ll g-get to it, but it’s why I s-stopped coming b-back as s-soon as I could. And the only reason I’m – any level of…well-adjusted as a p-person is because of the six p-people who’ve b-been here with me the last few days.”

Audra sips her coffee, looking at him, hurt expression betraying wary interest.

He pauses, searching for what to say. There isn’t really a right way to say it. “I’m telling you this b-because…I was r-really close to them, especially when we were here. Seeing everyone has b-been really good, but b-being here has b-been weird, it’s stirred up a lot of old emotions and p-painful shit, and it’s b-been p-pretty hard to deal with. They’ve b-been very supportive.”

“Ok, well that’s…good. Can you tell me what that stuff is?” she asks, serious, an underlying worry in her tone.

His eyes flick away from her, and back. “I p-promise, I’m getting t-there. I have to t-tell you something first. You’re not going t-to like it.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re freaking me out, Bill. Can you get to the point?” she snaps, and she looks irritable but he recognises fear in her eyes.

His heart hammers, and he swallows. “I fucked up, Aud. I got a b-bit too drunk last night –”

“I remember,” she says, coldly.

_Now or never, William_, he thinks. “I tried to kiss m-my high-school ex last n-night,” he gets out, hating the way the colour drains from Audra’s face. His stomach drops. “Then I got s-significantly drunker and kissed m-my friend.”

He looks at her anxiously, waiting for her reaction. He can’t quite figure out what would be the worst. He supposes that no reaction from your wife after you tell her you attempted to cheat on her once, and successfully did so afterwards with a different person, all in one night, would be good.

She looks frozen, holding up a hand. He doesn’t say anything or attempt to move closer to her.

“Who’s your high-school ex? Is she living in town?” she says, like it’s one of the only questions she can put together right now.

He wonders briefly how to answer it. She must pick it from his guilty expression, because something dawns on her. “It’s her, isn’t it? That gorgeous woman from last night who helped me. Bev?”

He nods.

Her face falls. “Oh, wow, damn,” she says, distantly, almost disappointed. She seems to think about it. “I thought she was just being squirrelly because she was drunk. But I guess it was because she’d just been…” she trails off, almost talking to herself. She looks at him, sharply. “Wait, what do you mean _tried to_, you didn’t…” she says, looking almost afraid to ask.

He shakes his head, newly horrified. “No! W-we just almost k-kissed, and she stopped it, and I stepped b-back, nothing more than that. I w-wouldn’t –” he breaks off, weakly. “It’s not her fault. She might have b-been acting guilty, but it was only b-because of w-what I did.”

Audra takes this in, and takes a deep breath. “Ok,” she says, quietly. “What I don’t get is – you seem pretty guilty about it now, sure, but after that near miss with a friend you decided why not try another? Really get it this time?” She seems hurt, and angry but nowhere near as furious as he thought she’d be.

He rubs the back of his neck with his palm. “No, I – “ he starts, and his voice dies. “I w-was just – drunk, and feeling a b-bit rejected, and trying to deal w-with some emotions, and I just – w-wanted someone to comfort me. Mike w-was just there.”

She looks away for a moment, then back at him, with a pained expression. “You couldn’t have just – called me? Do I not – am I not comforting to you?”

“No, Aud, p-please – you are, th-this is – th-this is me, and my shit, and th-this place. It’s not you,” he replies, remorsefully. This hurts. Why can’t he manage to stop hurting people, why can’t he stop - hurting? “It’s – I couldn’t t-tell you about it. It had t-to be someone who already – g-got it. G-got why I was so – fucked up, last n-night.”

She looks at him, frustrated and hurt, tearing up. Not crying yet, but any moment soon. “I would’ve got it, but you never let me know in the first place,” she says, still quiet.

The silence between them is frosty.

Bill can’t help asking. “You’re n-not…fazed, at all, that it was a m-man?” 

She shrugs, frowning. “I don’t know, Bill. I’m not that surprised. I work in the entertainment industry in LA, c’mon, you’re hardly shocking,” she says, flatly. “Whatever, so you’re bisexual. Unless you’re not, and you’re going to tell me right now?”

He shakes his head rapidly, feeling both strangely a little embarrassed and quite relieved, even though he’s still in the middle of this painful discussion. “N-no, definitely bisexual.”

“Alright,” she says. “You could have told me, I would’ve been ok. But I guess it’s part of this whole part of you that you’ve been hiding from me for the past eight years.”

He looks at her, remorseful. “I’m so sorry. I d-didn’t know – h-how to start.”

She holds his gaze for a moment, then says sharply, “You didn’t sleep with him, though?”

He shakes his head again, feeling his cheeks warm. “No, d-definitely not! We j-just kissed.”

She looks at him again for a long moment, then nods. “Well, I can maybe deal with that,” she says, matter-of-factly. His heart leaps hopefully, even though she’s not saying she won’t leave him yet. “I don’t know that we could come back from you fucking someone else. I don’t think I could. But if it was just kissing? Kissing is one bad decision, sex is a whole bunch of them, so I guess I’m glad you didn’t.”

Again she’s almost saying it to herself, like she’s working it out.

He wants to comfort her, even though he knows he shouldn’t. Sure enough, when he unconsciously moves forward she recoils.

Suddenly, she gets up off the bed and walks away – not towards the door, but facing the bathroom door, so he can’t see her expression. He can see her put her hands to her face, and her shoulders shake.

Bill instantly feels a million times worse, and horribly helpless. “I’m such an asshole, I kn-now, I’m so, so sorry,” he says, stumbling over his words, unable to stop himself even though it doesn’t mean much. 

She turns around, and she’s crying now, quietly. “You are an asshole, though, Bill,” she says, frustratedly, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“I know, I’m sorry, h-how do I f-fix it?” he asks, getting up, feeling his eyes getting hot again.

She shakes her head. “Why’d you have to do this _now_?”

He’s thrown by the last word. “S-sorry, _now_?”

She looks at him miserably and sniffs. “You just started ignoring my calls. Your texts were so short. You called me _once_ from here. Do you know _shitty_ that made me feel? Having to make your excuses for – whatever _this_ is for you – while you fucking _ignore _me? Like I’m some kind of shrew bitch wife who’s always nagging you? Like you couldn’t wait to be _away _from me?” she says, anguished, tears flowing. “I know we haven’t been great recently, but I didn’t think I was _that._ Like I’m some thinly-sketched wife character in one of your fucking books!”

He moves closer, tentatively. “I know, it w-was – _unforgivably_ s-shitty, babe, I know. I’ve been a s-shitty husband, not just in t-the last few days, I know. I’m s-so s-sorry t-that I made you feel like t-that.”

She looks back at him, and shakes her head again. She looks back at him. “It especially hurt because I _really _needed to talk to you. Honestly, even if there hadn’t been a holdup on the film – I would’ve found a way to get here. So, this really isn’t a great time for you to be doing this shit.”

He looks at her. “Wait –”

She sniffs. “I’m pregnant.”

His heartbeat speeds up again, hammering in his chest. “What?” he says, hardly daring to believe it. They’d talked about children, a long time ago, but never seriously. They were both too busy to consider it. He realises he’s actually crying now. “Oh m-my God.”

She looks anxious. “Is it freaking you out?”

He looks at her, deeply emotional. “No, t-this is…amazing, Aud, I c-can’t believe it!”

Then reality occurs to him, and he reigns it in again. “I m-mean, obviously, m-most importantly…what are y-you thinking about it?”

Audra looks surprised, and a little softer. “I guess I –“ she starts. She takes a breath. “If I want this – if I do it, it definitely changes things for me. Maybe temporarily, maybe longer.”

He nods, a little.

She keeps his gaze, her eyes serious. “But I’m getting older. I might not have more chances to have this child, and I think – I always said I wanted one, one day. I think this might be _one day._”

He smiles a little.

She still looks serious. Her face is still tear-streaked, but she’s not crying anymore. “But, as mad as I am that we have to deal with what you did right now, when I’m already dealing with this –”

His stomach drops, as he realises he not only cheated on his wife, he unwittingly just became one of those guys who cheats on their _pregnant _wives. “Oh God, Audra, I’m _s-such _an asshole. I’m s-so s-sorry, I really hate m-myself right now. I’m g-gonna do better.”

“Maybe it’s good, though,” Audra says, and he didn’t realise his stomach could sink any further. She doesn’t sound coldly furious like earlier. Just matter-of-fact. “Because it means we really are at a crossroads, and honestly? I’d rather know how you feel now than in nine months. If this isn’t working for you any more, we can have this baby, and we can be a fairly civil separated couple co-parenting a child. I know a few people who do that, and it’s not the end of the world. But –” she stops, and almost makes a movement towards him. She sniffs again. “If you’re still in this – if you really mean it when you say you just fucked up – you need to start _letting me in on your shit_, Bill. Maybe I – I need to do the same thing with you. God knows, we don’t fucking talk about this stuff. Afraid to. But I don’t want our child growing up with all of these goddamn _secrets, _with parents who don’t talk. I couldn’t bear to do that to them.”

Bill nods, blinking tears away. “Baby, believe me I kn-know w-what that’s like.” He pauses for a moment. “I w-wouldn’t ever w-want that f-for them. But if you can f-forgive me, if you can g-give me another chance – I w-won’t waste it. I’ll do s-so much better f-for you and this kid, I s-swear. I’m all in, if you w-want me, Aud. I – I love you _so much. _I’m s-sorry I’m fucking _terrible _at s-showing it.”

Her eyes are shining again, and she doesn’t look away from him. He moves closer and tentatively holds out his hand to hers, and she moves towards him so he can hold it. He picks it up, and holds it, stroking it gently with his thumb. Her hand is soft and small in his. He looks at her, tearing up again. “I really do love you, Aud. I’m s-sorry I’m s-such - a fucking hot m-mess.”

She sniffs. “I really love you too, baby. Why do you think I let you get away with so much?”

He chokes an unexpected chuckle out. He moves to wipe a tear off her face and she looks surprised again, then she winds her arms gently around him. He holds her too, remembering how she fits against him. Wondering how he forgot this. Maybe it’s this fucking town.

He kisses her soft hair, smelling the expensive shampoo she loves. Memories come back to him vividly. He read somewhere that smell is one of the strongest sense memories humans have. He’d believe it right now.

They stay like that for a while, before they finally let each other go.

She smiles at him softly. “Missed you.”

He smiles back. “M-missed you too.”

He pauses. He’d like to stay like this. He’s already exhausted from the start of this conversation, and they’re happy now. He wants to stay like this.

But, he reminds himself, if you really meant it about trying to let her in, you can’t start this new chapter exactly the same as you were living the other one.

“What is it?” she asks, a little worried.

“I m-meant it when I said I was g-going to be better,” he says, genuinely. “This is m-me, telling you m-my shit.”

Her eyes widen a little, but she looks at him with care. “That’s alright, babe, you don’t have to right now if you don’t want to.”

“I th-think I should,” he says, and gestures to the bed. “You m-might want to sit down, t-though. It’s kind of a lot t-to explain.”

She smiles, a little. “Alright.”

She sits on the bed, and he sits next to her. His throat is already feeling dry. He swallows. He never likes going into it.

“I’m just going to w-warn you, it’s not…p-pretty, so t-this is your last chance t-to t-tap out. I d-don’t even like t-thinking about it. But it’s k-kind of…important, unfortunately, if you’re going to r-really understand me, w-warts and t-trauma and all.”

She looks apprehensive. She places a hand on his leg. “Whatever it is, if you survived it, I can handle hearing about it.”

He’s not sure she believes that, but he smiles a little anyway, and puts his hand over his. “Thanks, Aud.”

He looks away, heart beating fast again. He takes a breath, forces himself to find an anchor looking at her. “I guess it b-began here, in Derry, on a r-rainy July day in 1988.” He supposes he can’t resist the urge to narrativize it. Maybe it’s a crutch.

"Ok," Audra says, calmly.

"I was - inside, with the flu, and I was m-making a p-paper boat with my little b-brother, G-g-georgie," he says, and his throat tightens painfully just getting the name out.

She looks less calm, taken aback. "Your little brother? You always said you were an…" she trails off with dawning horror. She looks at him, speechless.

He swallows, and looks back at her. “He left to p-play with it, and that w-was the last time I ever s-saw him.”

Audra puts a hand to her mouth silently. After a moment, she says in a small, sympathetic voice, “Oh, Bill…”

She strokes his leg gently. “Did you ever find out what happened to him?”

He looks at her grimly. “Yes.” He pauses, and flicks his gaze off into the background. “Sometimes I w-wish I hadn’t. But I do kn-know.”

There’s a silence. His heart thumps so much in his throat he wonders if he’s going to be sick. He takes another breath. “He was k-kidnapped, and k-killed by a m-man named R-Robert G-G-Gray –” He breaks off, shaking his head angrily. This fucking town. He can’t even get through what happened. He’s barely even started.

Audra gasps softly, and her hand goes to her mouth again. She finds his hand with her other one.

He looks at her, blinking away hot tears. She has tears in her eyes too. He holds her hand, anchoring himself. He swallows.

“The fucked-up thing is, that’s n-not the end of the s-story,” he says, tightly.

Audra pales. “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t…” she says softly.

He shakes his head. “I w-want to. Maybe n-need to.”

She nods, and squeezes his hand. “Ok. When you’re ready.”

He steadies himself, taking another breath. “M-my brother w-wasn’t the first and he w-wasn’t the l-last in that time. It w-was fucking _easy _for this g-guy – it w-was the eighties in a small town, p-people didn’t always l-lock their doors, p-parents let their kids just do w-whatever g-got them out of their hair. So, kids kept g-going m-missing, and they p-put a curfew in. It didn’t stop it.” He sniffs. “But I l-looked for him for m-months, I w-was – I w-was convinced that he was s-still alive, just trapped s-somewhere –“

He doesn’t entirely swallow a sob, and Audra looks devastated, tears now rolling down her face again. “I’m so – I’m so sorry,” she says, quietly helpless.

He can’t speak for a moment so he just nods.

“Th-thanks,” he gets out weakly. He holds her hand, and starts again. “I convinced my th-three friends t-to help me search. Th-they were just b-being kind, I th-think, doing this hopeless search for m-me.” He feels himself smile in the slightest way. “Th-that’s t-the kind of people th-they are. Good friends.”

She nods. “Who was that? Richie, I’m assuming,” she asks.

He smiles a little. She’d liked him, the few times they’d met. He’d told her Richie would be here, too, before he left. It hurts to talk about it, but it never hurts to remember how his oldest friend followed him into danger, into what felt like hell itself, with no complaints. Well, mild complaints.

“Y-yep. Y-you know I’ve known him since I w-was a baby, almost?” He shakes his head. “He’s always been like m-my other brother. In the w-way w-where y-you can hurt each other, and y-you’d still do fucking _anything_ for them. Like he did for m-me. Put himself in danger, for m-me. He’s w-way m-more than he lets p-people credit him for.”

Audra looks slightly surprised. “I didn’t know you guys were so close.”

“W-we haven’t been for a wh-while. Until now.” Bill looks down for a moment, then ticks them off on his fingers. “So him, Eddie – who y-you met last night –”

Audra’s lips quirk up a little, not really a smile, but something like it. “I remember him. He was very sweet. And drunk. He said he liked my movies.”

This makes him smile more. “I w-wish I’d seen that.”

“So, Richie and him, and –“ she asks.

“Stan,” he says.

Her eyes widen, slightly. “Who you came here for.”

He nods. “Who was p-probably the most afraid of s-searching the s-sewers, and who came with us anyway. Kind of f-friend he is.” He sniffs. “I was s-so late this morning b-because we had a long t-talk. I wouldn’t have been b-brave enough to t-talk to you without him – he t-told me I needed to t-tell you t-this. He’s a t-therapist, he’s good at t-this sort of t-thing.”

Audra smiles, her eyes watering. “I guess I owe him thanks, then.”

He smiles, and looks down. He feels it fade. “Th-they helped me so much, but honestly – I don’t know if w-we w-would have survived the summer if th-the others hadn’t joined up w-with us.”

She looks anxious again. “What happened?”

He squeezes her hand gently. “A kid that used to b-bully us – real suh-psychopath,” he winces, and continues. “N-not joking, he s-stabbed his dad to death – tried to cut up the new kid. He didn’t like anyone who s-stuck out, s-so he hated us nerds, and he hated this new kid who was quiet and s-soft and chubby. S-so he tried to cut his name into this new kid’s s-stomach –“

She gasps lightly. “Jesus Christ.”

“It’s ok, h-he w-was also smart. H-he got away before the suh-psycho could do much. But h-he was in a bad w-way, and kind of fell into our path. That w-was Ben. W-we patched h-him up as best w-we could, w-with the h-help of a girl w-we didn’t know too w-well, but w-we’d gone to school w-with since first grade. She w-was kind of a loner, p-people made up nasty things about h-her. She didn’t really h-have friends, but she h-helped us out. That’s the kind of p-person she is, generous. Kind. Even w-with everything she’s h-had to deal w-with,” he explains. It kind of helps to tell it as a story. He doesn’t have to just focus on the things about it he still dreads.

“Bev,” she breathes, interested. “Right. And the last one?”

“Mike,” he says, instantly feeling awkward.

Her eyes widen again, for a moment. Then she smiles a little. “It’s ok, Bill. You can talk about them.”

He nods, still feeling a bit warm. “We saved h-him from the same suh-psycho bully, who in addition to all h-his other charming qualities, was also a _d-deeply _racist shithead.” He looks down, and then at her. “The funny thing was, n-none of us really ever talked to M-mike b-before that. We saw him do m-meat runs into town on his b-bike, from the farm, b-but he was home-schooled then, so we didn’t really know him. He didn’t really have any friends b-before us. It definitely wasn’t a good time to b-be one of the only n-non-white p-people in town.”

“I’m sensing a theme here,” Audra says, wryly.

Bill smiles too. “Then I’m telling it r-right.” He looks away and back at her again, feeling something intense just thinking about it. “I can’t r-really explain it, b-but you don’t how strange it f-felt – three of these p-people I’d known since we were r-really young, three of them I barely knew – and it f-felt _right_. Like it was always m-meant to be like that. They f-filled in the gaps I didn’t even know were there.”

She smiles at him softly. “Sounds nice. Can’t say I ever had that, exactly.”

“No, it w-was – it is – kind of, unique. From the day w-we helped Mike, w-we w-were kind of bonded. And then w-we realised w-we w-were linked by something a lot w-worse.”

Audra’s face falls. “Oh no. More of that…” she starts, and can’t quite finish.

He nods, heartbeat already speeding up. “Yep,” he says grimly. “You see, wh-while w-we’d been looking for m-my b-brother…old B-bob had looking for us.” He shivers, a spike of adrenaline travelling up his spine at the memory. Audra looks morbidly fascinated. “I didn’t tell anyone I’d heard him w-whispering at m-me when I w-was alone one day – I didn’t w-want p-people to think I w-was crazy, and stop helping, or think I w-was right, and stop helping. He w-was – he w-was very good at hiding, slipping away, m-making you unsure he w-was ever there. B-but then I found out everyone else in that group had b-been p-personally, separately, spooked by him.”

“Oh my god,” she says, faintly. “What did you do? Did you tell the police?”

He swallows again. “He was trying to f-freak us out. P-play with us, as it were, b-before he struck again. And yes, we tried to go to the c-cops, but they weren’t keen on listening to us, for various shitty reasons. And because they knew Richie was a bit of a p-prankster. They just thought we were either stupid, or p-playing some kind of extremely b-bad-taste joke,” he says, bitterly. He hadn’t really mourned Oscar Bowers, when he’d heard. It wasn’t a death he’d wish on anyone, but the way he’d stone-walled them, along with the other cops – he’d hated him for that.

“Jesus,” she says again. “But your brother –“

“That’s what I –“ he starts, and then stops, shaking. “I fucking said, why would I m-make this up, m-my b-b-brother is out there somewhere – “ he can’t get through it, and he stops and shakes with anger.

Audra squeezes his hand, and he takes a breath and looks at her. It makes him calmer. Breathing more evenly, he says, “W-we realised adults w-weren’t listening and w-wouldn’t help. And then w-we w-worked out – using our s-shared research – w-where he might be. This old crack house on Neibolt Street that connected to the s-sewers, like I’d thought – I thought w-we had to try and go in, try and see if w-we could s-save _any _of the kids that had g-gone –“ he breaks off again, breathing heavily, vision swimming.

“Please tell me you didn’t go into the crack house where the serial killer was hiding?” Audra asks weakly. She already knows the answer, clearly.

He nods. “We d-did. Just Eddie, Richie and I, b-but the others came in later. We had a – we had a b-bad run-in with him, he knew the p-place b-better than us –“ he shivers again. “He was so good at d-disappearing that you’d have thought he was m-magic. Or a demon. When I finally saw him, this b-bulky giant of a m-man – nearly seven foot, m-maybe m-more – in a _fucking _clown costume, all d-dirty and b-bloodied, I was fucking _terrified, _but I was surprised that he m-moved so fast, he was so good at d-disappearing.” 

The colour has drained out of Audra’s face, and her mouth is open. “A fucking _clown_? Jesus _Christ_, what in the John Wayne Gacy hell…” she says, horrified.

“Fucking r-right? And this w-was about a decade or so after, so he w-was some kind of fucked up copycat,” he says grimly. “A fucking _clown._”

“What happened next?” she asks after a moment, apprehensively.

“S-strap in, it gets r-real intense,” he says darkly.

“How much –“ she starts, and then doesn’t bother.

He looks at her, breathes, and continues. “Eddie b-broke his arm, and B-ben got slashed, and Richie w-was - for the first time, properly angry at me. I w-w-wanted –“ he says, and winces. “I w-wanted to go b-back in, more p-prepared. Half of us thought I was b-batshit crazy, the others w-weren’t sure. W-we had the w-worst fight of our friendship, Richie and I, and I thought w-whatever this group w-was, it w-was over. W-we’d all go b-back to our corners and live in fear of him coming b-back.”

Audra’s eyes get bigger. “Oh God.”

He looks at her seriously. “It changed w-when he took two of us. Richie and Bev. And suddenly, any fights w-we were having were meaningless. He had people w-we cared _so much _about, and I got the r-rest of the guys together and asked them to come back w-with me. W-we w-were all shit scared but w-we agreed to do it, for them. And for m-my brother.”

“And the cops…still weren’t listening?” she asks, heavily. 

“G-got it in one,” he says, cynically. “But I p-probably would’ve g-gone in anyway. I c-couldn’t fail them, it felt – p-personal, that he’d taken them, two of my friends – the g-girl I liked, and m-my oldest friend. I c-couldn’t let them down like I did with G-g-georgie –“ He’s startled by the sob that escapes him.

Audra holds his hand, leaning over to put her other up to his face. “Baby, no, no. It wasn’t on you, either time! You were just a _kid_,” she says, sounding hurt for him.

He sniffs, already crying again, throat tightening. “You don’t know, Audra – I s-should have been watching him, it was my job – I s-should have fucking p-played with him, but it was raining and I didn’t want to go outside, and I _li-led that I was s-sick_ and I can’t – I can’t forgive it, Aud, he died because of my s-selfishness! That’s why I had to f-find him, s-so I could – s-so I could tell him _I’m s-so s-sorry _–“ He breaks down completely, realising he hasn’t talked about this in _decades. _So _long._

Audra pulls him into a hug, and lets him cry. He focuses on the feeling of her arms around him until he’s feeling calmer. She lets him go and he looks at her, wrecked.

She puts her hands up to his face, and looks him in the eye, speaking softly, her eyes shining again. “You didn’t want to play with him one time, Bill. You were thirteen. You couldn’t have known. He’d forgive you for that… You loved him.”

He stares back at her, almost angry, but then it all hits him, and he breaks down again. She lets him fall into her lap and strokes his hair, and after a while he calms. It’s very soothing. Without getting too Freudian, he hopes, it’s not something his own mother had done for him since he was little.

He looks up at her. “Do you w-want to hear the rest of the s-story?”

She continues stroking his hair, and frowns, worried. “I don’t know if you’re up to finishing it?”

“I w-want to,” he says quickly. “P-please. I might n-never be able to do it again.”

She looks at him deeply, and leans down to press a light kiss to his head. “Alright, I’m listening.”

He takes a breath. “We went in, and we f-found them, and we f-fought him, just seven t-thirteen year olds and whatever weapons we had p-picked up out of the giant t-trash pile in his lair. T-the suh-psycho I mentioned earlier, he was also t-there. T-turned out he was helping Bob, t-that’s why he liked us in p-particular. We almost –“ he takes a shuddering breath. “We almost d-_died. _Stan, p-particularly, got some n-nasty injuries.” He shivers against her. “I t-think it was awful for all of us, but especially him. Maybe t-that’s why…” he trails off, voice shaking. “I’m glad he’s still here. D-don’t know what I would’ve have d-done, if it’d been a d-different call.”

“I know,” she says, gently. “I would’ve been there for you.”

He looks up at her, vision swimming. She’s so – in this moment, he can’t fathom ever wanting to leave her, as long as he lives. “I love you, s-so much.”

She smiles, tearing up a little. “I love you too, _so _much. Thanks for letting me in.”

“Th-thanks for listening,” he says, croakily. His voice is getting sore, from all the talking and crying and talking he’s done this morning alone. “Can I ask you s-something?”

“Anything,” she says, beaming.

He looks up at her. “Lie w-with me for a bit?”

“Alright,” she says. “You’ll have to move over first.”

He chuckles, and does, moving up onto the pillow. She lies down next to him, and looks across. 

They’re quiet for a moment. He looks at her face, tear stained and red-eyed – he’s sure he looks worse – and she’s smiling, just a little. He might never have loved her more.

“Th-thanks for – for forgiving me. I r-really don’t deserve you,” he says, with a rush of gratitude.

She smiles more. “Given what you just told me, I think you can stop punishing yourself now. I forgive you.”

He smiles warmly.

She looks back at him. “That’s why they’re so important, then. The Losers. Despite everything, you survived together. That time you didn’t lose.”

He’s touched by this. “Th-that’s quite good, Aud, I’m keeping it in mind.” He looks down for a moment, and back. “Yeah, I think so, t-though. Some t-things make p-people your family,” he says very quietly. “In a w-way,” he adds, with an embarrassed grin. “It’s unbreakable.”

She looks back at him. “Are we unbreakable, now?” she whispers.

“I should t-think so,” he whispers back, putting a hand to her cheek. “We’ll be an unbreakable little f-family. This time I’ll get it r-right.”

She moves her face closer towards him. She smells so nice. “We’ll get it right, babe,” she whispers, and kisses him.

***

_He looks up at the stars. The sky is spinning. Maybe his head is spinning. He feels loose and wrung-out, too old and still too young. _

_He stumbles along, and stops next to a tree. Somewhere inside he hopes he’s not lost here in the woods, but he can still hear distorted music and revelling voices in the near distance. The sound of the fire. _

_He can’t tell whether he wants to sleep, or run or laugh or cry. He’s too drunk to figure it out._

_“Ello, ello, ello, what’ave we got ‘ere?” It echoes strangely, around him. Was the forest ever this green in the dark? _

_He turns around. Richie is grinning at his dumb British guy voice, which only gets worse when he’s drunk. “You awlright there me lad?” _

_He just stares at Richie. He feels like he’s underwater, like he can’t speak. Usually he’d be snapping at Richie. Richie must notice, because his grin slips a little. _

_“Eds?” he says, voice echoing. A bird caws loudly right in his ear._

Eddie wakes, realising the bird must have been a loud noise outside. He thinks vaguely about checking the time on his phone, then remembers he’s deliberately kept it off since last night.

Then he realises that his head is on fire. “Oh, fuck,” he mutters, and races to the bathroom to throw up.

He leans against the wall, tired. His mouth tastes like Myra’s sister’s casserole. Last night comes back to him in bits, worst of both worlds – drunk enough to have a raging hangover, but not enough to blackout on what happened.

He and Bev had talked. A lot. He remembers it like a gut punch, but at the same time, he’s grateful he remembers it at all. He feels like it would be a loss if he forgot what they’d talked about.

He remembers…meeting someone? He thinks about it, and then groans. Hell of a way to introduce yourself to your friend’s wife. Who is also a famous actress. He doesn’t even get drunk that much, for God’s sake! At least Bev was also drunk. Although he can’t remember her being embarrassing.

_Moving on_, he thinks.

He’d come to a conclusion about – Richie. “I was going to talk to him,” he says, and groans again. Richie had been in his dream, and he can’t quite tell if it was a dream or a memory, or a bad, dreamlike recreation of a memory.

He waits, but it doesn’t seem like his stomach is staging another revolt. So he gets up, shakily, and brushes his teeth until he can’t taste stomach acid anymore. He finds his painkillers, and takes a few.

“I’ve gotta stop drinking like I’m still in college, Jesus,” he says to himself in the mirror. There are shadows under his eyes, and he looks pale.

He should find out if Bev’s ok. He realises that to do this he’s going to have to turn his phone on. He sighs.

As expected, there are a fair few calls and texts – but not as many as before. Maybe she took his text to heart? Unlikely, but still.

He doesn’t bother to read them this time. He just types out a text to Bev.

_Bev - are you alive? If you need aspirin or anything, let me know_

He doesn’t expect her to text back as quickly as she does.

**no i’m dead. why shots. **

_i feel great. i ran 5k this morning. _

**you threw up then? me too ** **🤢**

_ugh, better out than in though. i’m going out, but if you want i’ll drop the aspirin off with you_

**that’s ok, i’ve had some, i’m being dramatic. i’m out w/ mike. i think he’s feeling our pain. **

_oh no – hope you guys feel better soon, say hi from me._

He smiles, and then pulls up his contacts. His smile fades at his stares at Richie’s contact details. He’d only put it in at the Chinese restaurant. It like it happened three years ago, not two-and-a-bit days.

He bites the bullet and calls, half-expecting Richie not to pick up.

“Edward,” Richie says, dryly. Somehow he manages to make that more annoying than any of his nicknames.

“Hey. I think we need to talk,” he says irritably. 

“Woof. Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” Richie replies, smugly.

Eddie flexes his fingers frustratedly, and closes his eyes. Why is he doing this, again?

“Look, I _want _to talk, Richie. Are you in your room?” he says, tiredly.

“Nope,” Richie says. “I’m at Stan’s.”

“Alright, I’ll be there soon. Can I pick you up?”

Richie pauses. “Uh, ok. See you then.”

“See you soon,” he says, and pauses before he hangs up. He wants to say something else, but he forgot what it was as soon as it occurred to him.

He takes a breath. “Ok. Good.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the chapter title is a gimme, and I've already used it in another fic, but i really do love that song and also I'm holding back another song lyric from the playlist for the next chapter :))) hope you liked reading this one, it's a typically huge one, but THINGS are HAPPENING! not long now till everything wraps up! let me know what you thought! :D


	10. This Is The Day, Your Life Will Surely Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi all, hope you're all taking care of yourselves :)  
two things:
> 
> I don't know if jewish wedding ceremonies actually involve best men, i should've researched that but now it's too much a part of things, so if you're offended, I genuinely am sorry and I'm really not trying to step on any toes (I've just been too flat out just finishing this to remember to look that up)
> 
> content warning: about three-quarters through the last scene a character references a very brutal/graphically violent method that the Vikings used to kill certain enemies. It's only a one sentence reference but if you're easily squeamish, start scrolling when the Vikings are mentioned. 
> 
> otherwise, i really do hope you enjoy this one!

Richie is considering raiding the kitchen for tea, even though he’s not a tea person, just for some kind of caffeine hit, when Stan finally gets back.

“Jesus Christ, man, where did you go to get it? New Hampshire?” he calls dramatically.

“Calm down, I’m here aren’t I?” Stan replies, flatly.

When he comes in, Richie can tell something’s different. His eyes are red, but he doesn’t look miserable. Well he looks vaguely annoyed, but that’s par for the course with their friendship.

“Everything good?” Richie asks.

Stan smiles, strangely. “Yeah actually. Everything’s good. I ran into Bill at the coffee shop.”

“Oh, damn,” Richie says, surprised. “Did you tell him to catch those hands?”

Stan hands him his coffee, with a kind of annoyed half-smile, like he doesn’t want to find it funny but does. “We had a civil conversation, Richie, because we’re adults.”

Richie blows a raspberry. “You should have thrown your coffee at him and run,” he jokes.

Stan smiles wryly. “I might have thought about it for a moment.”

Richie grins. “There he is! There’s the demon I know and love!”

Stan rolls his eyes. “Shut up, alright, I’m glad he got me to talk to him. We had a very deep conversation about a lot of things.”

“Oo-ooh,” Richie says, pitching his voice up at the end, knowing it’ll annoy Stan. He does it out of love.

Stan just looks at him. _Mission accomplished. _

He grins. “What do you want from me? I used up all my emotional maturity reserves yesterday!”

“And given how small they were already, I’m impressed they lasted that long,” Stan deadpans.

Richie laughs. “Well, I’m glad you’re back to your old self.”

He pauses, and sips his drink. “Alright, ok, you know I gotta ask…what happened with him and Mike last night then?”

Stan narrows his eyes. “Do you gotta ask, though? Maybe it’s private?”

Richie makes a face, waving it away. “Please, nothing between any of us is private. _Much_. Anymore. Don’t you appreciate that I tempered my natural inclination to be graphic, for you, Staniel? I could’ve asked if they f-”

“Rich!” Stan groans. “Stop _talking_. But no, ok, they did not. Are you happy, you monster?”

Richie grins. “_Thrilled_, O Stanny Boy. If they didn’t bump uglies –” Stan makes a pained noise. “ – doesn’t that mean that you and –”

“It means nothing, except that Bill is having a long-needed conversation with his wife. And I still haven’t apologised to Mike,” Stan cuts him off.

Richie looks at him, his grin slipping a little. “But, you were keyed up to do _something _last night. I know you were.”

Stan shakes his head. “I was keyed up to apologise. That was everything I had planned to do.”

Richie eyes him suspiciously. “Alright, man.” He has a thought. “Well, I guess since it’s not a big deal to you – do you know why they _didn’t_?”

Stan sighs. “You’re the worst.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Richie smirks.

“Don’t,” Stan replies, without missing a beat. “Mike stopped it. A surprising amount of drunken self-control in him and Bev –” he says.

“Bev?” Richie cuts in. “Jesus, the man _was _busy last night! This had to have been after I left her napping in my room. I’m gone one night and there’s _more _drama!”

Stan cringes slightly. “Ok, I didn’t mean to say that, so just – keep that to yourself or she’ll probably kick your butt. And mine. But also, she didn’t kiss him, so I don’t think you missed much.”

“Huh,” he says. “That’s a risk I may have to take, I’m _dying _to ask her about it.”

Stan sighs long-sufferingly. “Why are you like this?”

Richie grins. “Natural charm? A certain _je ne … _whatever. You love it.”

Stan narrows his eyes, but can’t help smiling a moment later. “Alright, enough about me. Are you going to do anything about _your _apology? I well and truly forgave you, so it’s time to rip the bandaid off with Eddie, Rich.”

Richie groans. “But it’s _hard_. Can’t we stay here and watch morning television like two grandmas? Point out how Ryan Seacrest’s hair never moves?”

Stan smirks. “I’m gonna have to pass. You can do this, Rich.”

Richie blows a raspberry and then hears his phone go off in his pocket. Looking at the screen almost gives him a heart attack. “You summoned him!” he hisses, shoving the phone at Stan.

“Answer him, then!” Stan says, pushing it back at him.

“He knew we were talking about him!” he panics.

“Richie, answer your phone!” Stan says, gesturing at it.

Richie looks down at the stupid photo of them from the Jade of the Orient he’d set as the caller photo. The caller ID says _Feral Sweaterman. _

Richie means to answer the phone in a normal way. He’s trying to apologise. But what comes out is, “Edward.” A flat, annoyed tone. He’s still kind of angry, dammit.

Stan shakes his head.

When he gets off the phone, Stan says, “What the hell was that, man? It wasn’t exactly _conciliatory_?”

Richie groans. “Look, I know. He’s coming here in like ten though, so I’ll do better then.”

Stan raises an eyebrow.

Richie frowns. “It’s just something about him! You know this! I gotta rib him a bit, always!”

Stan narrows his eyes, unimpressed. “Uh-huh.”

Richie throws his hands up. “Ok, yes, I’m still mad. Don’t get in a twist, I’m still going to apologise.”

Stan looks at him for a moment, and smiles a little, surprisingly, though still a bit exasperated. “Just – don’t do that thing you guys always do, ok?”

Richie looks at him, confused. “What, pray tell, would that be?”

Stan pauses, thoughtfully. “You whip each other up. Just – remember what you’re trying to do, ok?”

Richie _tuhs. _“Don’t worry, man, I know how to do this. I’ve had to give a few apologies in my time.”

Stan gives him a look. “You realise that’s not a brag, right?”

*

True to his word, Eddie is there very quickly.

Richie’s heart jolts and speeds up when he hears the knock on the door. It’s either apprehension or all the caffeine he’s just drowned his bloodstream with.

He opens the door, unaffected and a little cold, though. “Woof! You look like you had a rough night.”

It’s true – he has dark circles under his eyes, and they look bloodshot and tired. He’s managed to get dressed pretty neatly, but there’s something about it all that still looks a bit rumpled. Maybe just because it’s him, and anything other than normal looks a little messy.

Eddie’s eyes flash, but he swallows it. “Something like that,” he says, uncomfortably.

“Are you hungover?” Richie asks, before he can stop himself. “I can’t believe I’m in a situation where you’re hungover and I’m not.”

Eddie glares at him, raising a flat palm aggressively and then dropping it. “Can you just come and get in the damn car, asshole?”

“Where are you taking me?” he asks, curiously. “Are you going to murder me and bury my body in the woods?”

“I’m considering it right now,” he snaps. “Are you coming or not?”

Richie’s going to say yes. He is. He’s just enjoying seeing how far he can make the vein on Eddie’s neck pop out.

“He is,” Stan says, coming up next to him and giving him a look. “Hi Eddie. How are you doing?”

Eddie, annoyingly, looks happier to see Stan. “I’ve been better. How about you?”

Stan smiles. “I’m alright. Bit of a night, but Richie and I stayed in.”

Richie can’t help the cackle that escapes him. “Mostly.”

Eddie looks confused.

Stan jabs him in the ribs. “Ow! – ” He says, and then picking up on Stan’s look, “Yeah, it was pretty chill.”

Eddie looks curious now, but doesn’t comment.

“So, Richie’s going with you now, Eddie,” Stan says, grabbing Richie’s thick jacket off the rack by the door and shoving it at him.

“Good,” Eddie says, sounding thrilled.

“Stan!” he protests, practically being shoved out the door.

“Play nice,” he says, closing the door and nodding at Eddie. “See you later.”

Alone on the porch, Eddie glares him down. He’s almost sure that something’s coming – like one of Eddie’s fists – when Eddie says, “Come on, it’s fucking cold,” and turns to head down the stairs.

Richie follows him, and gets into the car. Once it’s on, and the heating’s kicked in – the car Eddie rented is not flashy, like the fuck-off sports car he’d got for whatever reason (bragging? Like it would impress them?) is grown up and expensive looking all the same – it is nicer than being outside.

It’s still cold, though. Or not cold, exactly, but uncomfortable. He doesn’t ask again where they’re going. His talent for babbling nonsense to fill a silence seems to be failing him.

Eddie turns into the parking area outside the guesthouse.

“That was so dramatic, and you were just driving us back here? Jesus, Eds, you love the drama, huh?”

Eddie doesn’t even correct him on the nickname. He’s reminded again that they’re not just fighting over something dumb, like when they were kids. It’s not who got to use the hammock, who drank the last of the beer or ate the last slice of pizza – it’s serious, and it hurts. He hates feeling like this.

“I thought we could talk inside? I thought Stan might not appreciate being the awkward third wheel in his own house,” Eddie says, after a moment, with some effort.

Richie is caught off-guard. “Alright, yeah, of course.”

“Ok,” Eddie says, and pauses for a moment before heading out of the car.

After a beat, Richie follows.

***

Eddie leads them into the lounge/bar area, and almost feels like he’s going to be sick for a moment. He doesn’t know whether it’s sense memory from last night, or the conversation they have to have now.

His palms are sweaty. How does that one song go? Richie would know.

“I did _not_ think you’d want to be near a bar any time soon, man,” Richie says, surprised. “Also, there’s no bartender.”

Eddie frowns. “If he exists, I didn’t see him last night either. We’re not here to drink, anyway.”

“You were _here _last night? You weren’t here for the big –” Richie starts, and then nods, realising. “_She_ got you drinking, that makes sense.”

Eddie glares at him, feeling a rush of irritation. “Yeah I kind of needed it, yesterday.”

“Seems to have worked out super well for you, too,” Richie snipes back.

There’s a silence. Richie looks defiant and hurt.

Eddie watches him, frustrated, and then sighs. “I didn’t bring you back here just to yell at you more.”

“Great,” Richie says, obnoxiously.

Eddie brings up a hand, pointing it at him like a knife. “Can you maybe just not be a dick for five seconds when I’m trying to apologise?”

Richie stares at him, and Eddie thinks maybe he’s going to yell at him. Unexpectedly, his face splits into a grin, and he starts laughing. It’s not a nasty laugh either – a genuine, Richie Special belly-laugh.

He really wants to be angry, too. He almost keeps it, but the next moment he feels the corners of his lips being dragged into an unwilling smile.

There’s another silence, but this one is way less icy.

He looks at Richie, who is looking back at him strangely. Like he knows this is still _a fight _but also it feels way less important now.

He flexes his hand nervously at his side. “I’m – I’m sorry, ok?” he says, honestly.

Richie looks surprised, like he hadn’t really expected Eddie to actually do it. Which is _stupid_, because hadn’t he _just _said he was trying to?

Eddie looks over at the couch that he and Bev had been sitting on last night, then he turns back to Richie. “I was _really _fucking angry with you, Richie. Maybe the angriest I’ve _ever _been with you, which is insane, given all the dumb shit you’ve done in the past. But when we here last night – Bev reminded me that even though you make some _deeply shitty _choices sometimes, you were also a fucking _great _friend to me. Fuck, maybe my best friend. And I don’t – say that lightly, you know, given our other friends. You – ” he breaks off, momentarily. “You always had my back. You were – you did so much for me. I – ” he takes a breath. “I don’t want to lose that. I – _can’t_. Not again.”

Richie still looks like he’s holding himself at a slight distance. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, eyes wide and glazed-looking behind his glasses.

“Uh,” he starts awkwardly. “It was – of course, I had your back, man. We were friends. Like any of the others.”

Eddie looks at him. His voice sounds off, not like he’s trying to be cruel, but not in his usual jokey-asshole way either. It’s like he’s – playing it down. He should be crowing right now, and he isn’t.

“Bev told me what the two of you did for me, just after…” he says quietly, trailing off, hoping Richie will pick it up from context.

Richie looks taken-aback again. “Oh.”

Eddie continues. “I fucking…” he starts, and shakes his head. “I can’t believe you did that for me. I was – _so lonely_ and _so miserable_ when I was stuck at home all that time. I thought it was never going to end. Bev said you wouldn’t let the plan go ahead without you there.”

Richie groans, rolling his whole head around awkwardly. “Goddamnit, Bev,” he mutters, smiling in a strange, rueful way. He looks at Eddie, and his eyes are very full of…something. “I couldn’t let you rot in that house. With her. And…lose my – my best friend. No. Fuck that, I knew we had too many adventures together ahead of us,” he says, smiling, but his eyes are sort of glinting? Eddie can’t tell.

“You did what I couldn’t, Rich. You stood up to my _mom._ I – I couldn’t,” Eddie says, frowning a little.

Richie looks at him, surprised again, and shakes his head. “You already had, Eds, you crazy little spitfire. Do you not remember when you yelled at her? And when you ran out of the house to go with us? And you adorably _completely _fucked up the word placebo?”

Eddie grins, half-annoyed. “Yeah, it didn’t end up doing much though.”

Richie looks at him like he’s crazy. “Baby steps, Eds. You were always stronger than you fuckin’ thought. That’s just a fuckin’ fact.”

Eddie looks at him, much less annoyed. Feeling the same storm of emotions building up again. He pauses. “Don’t call me Eds.”

Richie grins. “He’s back, ladies and gentlemen.”

They’re quiet again, not cold, but still awkward, even though they’re smiling.

Richie looks down at his feet, and then back up, guiltier now. “I’m – really fuckin’ sorry about what I said. I know it’s not really an _oops, my bad_ kind of thing – I know I said some really nasty shit, and I’m just – if it means anything – I’m just really fuckin’ _sorry, _Eds, I swear, and just sorry in general for flipping out on you,” he says, speeding up as he goes along, almost desperately. “What was that even about?” he half-jokes. His eyes are uncomfortable.

“You were right though,” Eddie finds himself saying.

Richie looks blank. “Uh, about what?”

Eddie looks around, wondering why he’s chosen to bring this up. “About…Myra. Kind of realised last night, with Bev. It’s not…right, with us. You might have been an asshole about it, but irritatingly, you’re often right on the money,” he says, with grim humour.

Richie looks more taken aback. “I –” he tries. “I shouldn’t have said it anyway. That was fucked up, Eddie. I’m really fuckin’…sorry. It’s really none of my business, man – ” 

Eddie looks at him for a moment. He really does look and sound deeply remorseful. It tears at something inside of him, like a rat gnawing at a sack of sugar. Sooner or later his barricaded emotions are going to come pouring quickly, steadily, out. “It’s alright,” he says, uncertain. “Stop being so earnest, though. I don’t recognise you,” he tries to joke.

Richie breaks into a true grin. “Whatever you wish, Eduardo.”

Eddie smiles at him, for another moment. He should just let the moment be nice. Why is he trying to interrogate what happened before?

“So, um,” he starts. “I know I just told you not to be earnest, but I have to be right now. And then you can laugh at me.”

“Deal,” Richie says, half-grinning.

He takes a breath, feeling weird. “I’m sorry if I humiliated you in front of Heather and April. I’m really sorry, I never want to make you feel shitty about who you are, Rich. And I know, it doesn’t seem like it from the dumb way I reacted, but I actually – ” he pauses, and Richie looks strangely frozen. “I actually would’ve been cool if you’d told me,” he says, and sighs. “You were my best friend, man, I’d never – I’d be so _fucking_ – pissed at myself if I ever made you feel ashamed of yourself.” He pauses, breathing. Rich’s still frozen.

Richie blinks. After a moment he says, awkwardly jokey, “Right. I told you about that.”

Eddie nods, unsure what Richie’s reaction is going to be.

Richie shakes his head. “I was kind of being…dramatic, you know me,” he says, half-smiling jokily. “I probably made it sound worse than it was. You know. It was just kind of awkward, whatever.”

Eddie is starting to feel indignant, somehow, that Richie is being so casual about it. He should be happy, surely, that this isn’t the spiteful, hurting Richie of yesterday. But that Richie had been honest, at least, about how he was feeling.

“Richie,” he says, half-exasperated.

“What?” Richie asks, laughing, still slightly awkward.

He stares at him, feeling oddly desperate. “Don’t just – let me off the hook so easy! I was a dick, and I hurt you!”

Richie smiles at him weirdly. “Sure, you were a dick. Then you apologised. That was nice. We’re good.”

“Why are you being so _nice_?” He asks, fully exasperated now.

Richie laughs. “Why are _you_ being so weird? You’re forcing me to be the adult, and you know how much I fuckin’ hate that. We made up, like adults, isn’t that good?”

“No!” Eddie says, annoyed, heart beating.

Richie raises an eyebrow. “Nothing’s ever simple with you, you barely-closed Tupperware container of rage, is it huh?”

Eddie scowls. “I didn’t mean it, ok?”

Richie looks confused.

“Maybe it means nothing, I don’t know, but given the fact you lost your entire shit at me over it yesterday, I think it _does _matter to you. I was wrong, ok? I got caught off-guard. I said being married to you would be ridiculous and it was so fucking _stupid_ – because, you’d be a great fucking husband, even though you’re not mine, and I wish I’d just said that, and I wish you weren’t pretending you don’t care, asshole!”

He doesn’t know why he’s so genuinely annoyed right now. Something about Richie just – inflames him.

Richie is watching him oddly again, half a smile lingering on his face, almost like he’s forgotten it’s there. “Um,” he starts. “Thanks, for that, Eds. Even if you kind of also called me an asshole.”

“Sorry about that,” he says fiercely.

Richie grins more. “Look, I’m definitely loving this ‘howler monkey on ice’ vibe you’ve got going –”

Eddie frowns. “Hey, fuck off.”

Richie grins more. “See? Love it. I’m just … wondering where it’s coming from? You seem very hyper – more than usual even. Which for you, is saying something.”

Eddie scowls at him, and looks around. His eyes fall on the couch at the end of the bar, and he almost wishes he was still drunk. But then his stomach twists uncomfortably, and he doesn’t. His heart is still drumming out a military tattoo for some reason, too fast and he can’t seem to slow it.

He stares at Richie, irritable and exasperated, and says, “I’ve been thinking about something you said yesterday, and I can’t get it out of my head.”

Richie’s face falls. “Oh man, Eds… you know that was a load of crap mostly, it’s not even worth thinking about.” He certainly looks guilty now.

“No, I’m not…mad at you,” Eddie says, a little too intensely, and the corner of Richie’s mouth quirks up.

Eddie shakes his head, trying to figure out what he’s trying to say.

“Just before you left, you said I already knew why you were so angry, or ‘didn’t I remember?’” He pauses. “I – I’ve been racking my brains, and I _don’t _Richie. I hate this feeling – like it’s something, somewhere in my memory, that I’m forgetting, but I don’t know what you mean. I need – I need you to tell me.”

Richie pales. “Oh man, Eds, can’t we just – don’t worry about it, I was just talking shit,” he says, evasively.

“No, you talk a lot of shit, but you weren’t doing it then,” Eddie keeps on.

Richie looks at him uncomfortably. “It’s not even – ”

Eddie feels strangely desperate. “_Please, _Rich.”

Richie stares back at him, like he’s trying to work something out. “Alright,” he says slowly. “You sure you wanna go into this again? It was like, over twenty years ago.”

Eddie nods quickly. “I – I had a dream last night – I feel like it was…part of a memory?” he remembers suddenly. “It was in the woods. You were in it, anyway.”

Richie looks spooked. “Oh. Well…that’s good, I guess. You remember some of it. You remember the last party we had? In the woods? You got pretty messed up.”

Eddie shudders. “Ugh, yeah. Cheap-ass beer and weed.”

Richie grins. “That you definitely didn’t need to partake in as much as you did, you little party monster.”

Eddie scowls. “Ok, I get it, I overdid it a bit. Not like you were so sober.” 

Richie grins wider. “Just setting the scene, Spaghetti Man.”

Eddie shakes his head. Richie continues, still grinning. “Anyway, if you remember, the last party was because you, Stan, and Bev were all going off to college the next day – together for most of the way up to New York, and then splitting off to NYU, Yale, and Princeton. But yeah, we were losing three of our number and we knew – it wouldn’t fuckin’ be the same without you. And it wasn’t, even though the rest of us hung out till we had to leave, we felt it.” Richie continues, and pauses. “But it did mean I could finally spend time wooing your mom without your judgemental little eyes on us –”

Eddie glares at him, and opens his mouth but no sound comes out for a moment. “Fuck _you, _Richie! I regret asking you to tell me anything!”

Richie cackles. “No, no, I’m telling it, I’m telling it! I couldn’t resist!”

Eddie shakes his head in disbelief. “Looking at you, the body is clearly middle-aged, but the mind is still thirteen. It’s fascinating.”

Richie laughs, surprised. “Oh! Spaghetti Man comes in with a two-hit combo! Ouch!”

It drags out an unwilling smile from Eddie. _What an idiot. _

Richie continues. “Alright, so we had a fire, remember? And drinks? And we were hanging out, just near the clubhouse but above ground, in the woods.”

“I remember,” Eddie says, and he starts to as Richie tells him.

_Eddie’s a bit drunk, and sad because they’re eighteen now, and he should be excited for the future, for college – maybe he is, the thought of leaving, living his own life is exciting – but it’s also the last time they're all going to be together for a while and he doesn't know how to imagine it. He knows that technically it wasn't so long ago that they weren’t this group – that it was just the four of them, and it was different – but everything they’ve been through together, it feels like it’s been this way forever. And now they won’t be them, they’ve gotta go to new places and make new friends and see different people everyday instead of each other, and it’s fucked, really. _

_Everyone seems to share the same mood more or less – excited and terrified and sad and relieved. They’re going through phases tonight – right now they’re sitting lazily in front of the fire, drinking and talking. _

_He’s glad it’s just the seven of them tonight. He thinks of Carrie with a twinge of guilt, even more guilty over the fact that he’s glad she’s not here tonight. Stan and Rachel had broken up recently too – in a dramatic scene outside Prom that he’s not talking about much. No girlfriends tonight. Except Bev, of course, but she’s not an outsider. He’s probably going to be nearer to her than anyone in the next year, he’s traveling up with her, and yet he already misses her. She’s so – vibrant, and cool, and a good listener and she’ll probably meet a bunch of way cooler people at NYU. Maybe he can come down and visit? Yale’s only like an hour and a half away. There’s definitely a train he could take. _

_He’ll be three hours from Stan, but maybe they can meet up in the city too. _

_Stan looks pensive tonight. There’s something – it’s not like he’s been sad all night, it’s just in moments that he looks adrift in the same way that Eddie feels. Maybe he’s feeling the same thing, the loss of childhood, the loss of this thing they all have, at least for a while. Eddie knows they’re not strictly normal – how could they ever be? Normal friends aren’t so close, normal friends don’t comfort each other like this. Right now, Stan’s leaning lazily against Mike’s shoulder, and holding Bev’s hand. He looks comfortable, his eyelids heavy. Eddie likes how it doesn’t matter with them, they can do it without making a big deal. How is he supposed to meet new people after this? _

_Maybe Stan’s sad because of the breakup, too. Honestly, Eddie doesn’t know, because he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it – but he’s actually seemed happier in the last few weeks than he has in a while. Maybe it’s the relief of being past school, and having the college acceptance, maybe it’s just that he and Rachel weren’t making each other happy any more, so what’s the point of keeping it on life support through college? _

_He and Carrie weren’t like that, although they came to the same conclusion. He thinks a lot of them have. Bill is holding Bev gently against him, and chuckling at something someone’s said, and they look perfectly happy and comfortable together, but Eddie knows that they’re going to break up tomorrow as well. Too painful to drag it out through a year or more of college, risking it potentially ending in a much more hurtful way, not being able to break up in person because you’re thousands of miles apart. _

_Bev catches his eye across the fire, the flames glinting in her eyes, matching her hair. She smiles slowly at him. “Eddie, you alright?” _

_He blinks and smiles, feeling himself blush. It’s dark, though. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking.” _

_She nods. “You wanna stop thinking and dance with me?” _

_He protests, but she drags him up to dance. Music is playing out of Big Bertha, Mike’s treasured boombox. The next song starts and is met with several groans but equal whoops of delight, Bev among them. _

_“C’mon, it’s our song!” Bev laughs, calling them all up, to a few grumbles. A lot of songs are ‘their song’, as a group, but this one is important solely because half the group loves its earnestness and relatable confusion and half the group pretend they don’t enjoy it because they’re too cool for it. Either way, even the ones who pretend to hate it always end up singing along to the chorus, and they’ve gotten up to dance anyway. _

_Bev takes his hands, swaying with him slowly. _

_“Twenty five years and my life is still,” Bev sings along, grinning. It definitely works when you’re a bit drunk, Eddie thinks. _

_As is tradition, or maybe just habit, they end up dancing in a circle, drunkenly, happily, yelling “WHAT’S GOING ON?” into the sky. Bill is in the group of naysayers – of course – but he smiles at Bev from where he’s dancing with the others. She smiles at him. It’s kind of bittersweet, and it pulls at something inside Eddie. He can’t even imagine what it’s like for them – he was kind of relieved to break up with Carrie. He liked her a lot, but they never looked at each other like that. _

_Unexpectedly, he catches Richie’s eye, where he’s got his right arm wrapped around Bill’s shoulders. Richie’s taller than Bill now, he’s really shot up. His hair’s shaggy, he’s probably intending to go to college and look like a surfer, now he’ll be in California. Or someone who’s grown up in semi-rural Maine’s idea of a surfer. _

_Richie grins at him, and there’s something bittersweet in that too. It catches him off guard, whatever was calmly pulling inside of him rips painfully. He tries to smile back, and looks away. _

_*_

_He finds himself wandering off from the group later, looking up at the moon between the tops of the trees. It’s so big. He needs to pee. _

_To be honest, it hadn’t been much of a group, him, Ben and Richie. They’d been smoking with the others, but then Bill and Bev had disappeared off somewhere – no prizes for guessing – and Mike had gone to get something from his car, and Stan…had gone off just before Eddie had, and he’s too generally fucked up to keep track of where everyone is._

_He goes to pee, and almost gets lost walking back. Everything is slow, and the sky is spinning. _

_He can’t tell whether he wants to sleep or run or laugh or cry. He’s too drunk to figure it out._

_“Ello, ello, ello, what’ave we got ‘ere?” _

_He turns around, heart beating a mine a minute. Richie is grinning at his dumb British guy voice, which only gets worse when he’s drunk. “You awlright there, me lad?” _

_He just stares at Richie. He wants to yell at Richie for scaring the shit out of him, but he feels like he’s underwater, like he can’t speak. Usually he’d be snapping at him. Richie must notice this, because his grin slips a little. _

_“No…” he says, slowly. “Fuck you! You almost gave me a fucking coronary, Jesus Christ! What’s wrong with you!” _

_Richie grins at him wolfishly, raising an eyebrow. He puts on a ridiculous deep voice. “Many things, baby. Wouldn’t you like to know.” _

_Eddie glares at him for a moment, then starts laughing. Richie looks surprised, but relieved. _

_“I’m gonna miss you so much, you fucking asshole,” he gasps. _

_Richie laughs too. _

_Eddie’s laughter is becoming hysterical. He thinks vaguely of his inhaler, somewhere in Richie’s car. _

_Richie’s face falls. “Eds, are you ok?” he says slowly. He’s fucked-up too, to be fair._

_“No, Richie! I’m not fucking ok!” he bursts out. He can feel tears in his eyes. When did he start crying? Why is he crying? Just from laughing so much?_

_Richie looks at him, seriously – hesitates, and then throws his arms around him. _

_He panics for a moment, struggling, and then gives in. “I can’t do this. I don’t want to,” he says into Richie’s chest. His own chest is tightening. “I can’t – I can’t think, I can’t – I can’t breathe,” he says, wheezing, panicking. _

_“Breathe with me, Eds,” Richie says, taking long deep breaths. Eddie can feel his lungs working, and focuses on that and the sound of Richie’s breathing. His t-shirt is warm and soft. _

_Once he calms down, Richie lets him go and looks at him, distressed. “You worried about the last day, tomorrow?” _

_Eddie looks up at him, then down. He doesn’t say anything. _

_“You worried about leaving everyone?” Richie says, softly. _

_Eddie nods slowly. _

_He looks up at Richie, unable to explain it all fully. _

_Richie is pulling something out his pocket. “Here. It’s not a big deal or anything, but I made you something to remember me, at least. Being that I’m the best and your favourite of our friends, obviously,” he jokes. _

_Eddie is caught-off guard again. He’s probably right, to be honest. He loves every one of them, but the thought of an existence without Richie’s loud, energetic presence in it is just – not something he’s had to consider since he was seven. Not something he wants to consider. _

_Richie looks nervous. Eddie takes the present. It’s not wrapped. _

_It’s a mixtape. Eddie has a few of his, but this one has a bunch of pictures of them from one time when they were messing around in the photobooth at the arcade, just the two of them, pulling stupid faces. In one of them they’re just looking at each other, laughing. Eddie both can’t stop and deeply wants to stop looking at it. _

_The hand drawn title proclaims it, “BASKET CASE: Edward Kaspbrak Esq.’s Guide To Surviving His Obnoxious WASP-y Rich Kid School Without Turning Into One Himself.” _

_He grins to himself. “Fuck you.” _

_He hears Richie cackle. _

_He looks at the track listing on the back. “Basket Case, fuck you,” _

_“Know you love that one,” Richie cackles. _

_“This is really – good,” he says, throat tightening._

_He looks up. Richie’s hiding that same bittersweet look in his eyes under a goofy grin. _

_Eddie’s heart beats and his head spins, and he feels a rush of affection for him – but not just affection, not like how he looks at Ben or Mike, and feels affection for them and their kindness. Something else, some strange mix of affection and aggravation that he only feels around Richie. _

_“Yeah, well, if I let you go off to college with only your own music, you’d never make any friends and I just couldn’t – ”_

_Eddie doesn’t let him finish, stuffing the tape in his pocket, grabbing his face and pressing his lips to Richie’s. _

_Before Richie can really react, Eddie lets him go. “Oh, fuck,” he says quietly, looking at a stunned Richie, and promptly turns to vomit. _

_Richie opens his mouth, then closes it. Eddie sways and the forest spins. Richie grabs his arms. “Are you ok?” _

_“I feel sick,” he says, not looking at Richie. “I just want to go to sleep.” _

_Richie nods, face falling. “Let’s get your sleeping bag, Eds.” _

“The next day you were packing, and the morning after that, when you left – ” Richie continues, subdued. “By then, I felt like I’d imagined it. I certainly –” he starts, then stops, wincing slightly. “You were pretty fucked up. We all were. Didn’t seem fair to get into it with you on your last morning. I figured, either you’d blacked it out or you wished you had.”

“I – ” Eddie starts, and his voice dies.

Richie shakes his head. “Hey, it’s – whatever. I didn’t want to freak you out. I should have never brought it up in the first place. It’s not a – big deal.” He’s being casual again, distancing. He shrugs. “Eddie, I get it, ok? Emotions were high, we were high, we were drunk, you’ve never had a lot of tolerance in that little body –”

Eddie frowns. “Richie, shut up –”

Richie grins, throwing his hands up like he’s steadying a wild animal. “OK, but you were the one who begged me to tell you.”

Eddie glares and shakes his head. “No, I – ” His heart is beating fast again. “Richie, I – I know it sounds like bullshit, but I really didn’t remember it. I remembered – vaguely, something with you, but I was dealing with everything else, hangover, sadness, packing, my mom glaring at me whenever I looked at her – I didn’t – I couldn’t think about it. I was barely holding it together that last morning, Rich,” he says, feeling suddenly desperate for Richie to understand. “But I – I’m thinking about it, and I remember it now, Richie – ”

Richie interrupts. “Eddie, you don’t have to do this,” he says, strained. “I don’t even know why I fuckin’ brought it up, I was angry. I wanted to throw you off balance,” he says, grinning but it’s too strained. He’s quiet for a moment.

“You really didn’t remember?” he asks, and then shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I mean, clearly it wasn’t your thing, it was a mistake. You fell asleep super quick after that. Can we just forget about it? It was a long-ass time ago, it’s not like I – it’s in the past, whatever, can’t we just – it’s not important – ”

“I’m not in love with my wife!” Eddie blurts out, effectively shutting Richie up. “I pretty much only realised it last night. Thanks to Bev, who has some experience with bad marriages. You were right, Richie, she’s basically – it’s not _good, _I can’t do it anymore.”

Richie stares at him. “Uh,” he says dumbly.

Eddie stares back, feeling kind of manic. “I’ve been thinking about why I’d do that. Why I’d stay with someone who – reminds me so much of someone I desperately had to get away from.”

Richie nods, still looking stunned.

Eddie’s heart is beating so fast he feels like he’s going to have a heart attack, like it’s beating against his chest cavity, like it wants to beat its way free. It would be just his luck to have a cardiac situation before he gets to say what he needs to say.

“I don’t really know, Bev and I are still working on it – ” Eddie says, fighting to control the shake in his voice. He braces his arms on his upper thighs and takes a breath. Then he straightens up to look at Richie. “This is – really, fuckin’ scary – but I think I gotta be – ” he breaks off, and takes another breath. “Fuck, Rich, I gotta be honest with you.”

Richie looks suddenly very anxious. He opens his mouth a few times, and then closes it. It’s so weird to see him this speechless. It’s doubly annoying that Eddie’s too stressed to enjoy it.

He stares at Richie. “It wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t – unimportant, Rich. You were so much of my fucking _world _for so long, you pissed me off so _fucking_ _much_ but you were there almost my entire life in this goddamn place!” he bursts out, impassioned. “I was so terrified of leaving everyone, but I just – I couldn’t picture my life without you, Rich. And, yeah, I was a bit fucked up that night – enough that it made it hard to remember things the next day – but all that did was bring it to the surface. It just made me brave enough to do something I could barely fucking admit to myself that I wanted!”

Richie stares at him, speechless and disbelieving.

He glares at Richie. “Well, say something!”

Richie blinks. “You…wanted…” he breaks off. “You _wanted_ to kiss me?”

He thinks for a moment, looking like the math doesn’t make sense.

Then he frowns. “You didn’t like me then! You had a girlfriend!” he exclaims, like this is some great checkmate move.

Eddie scowls at him. “So did you, genius. It happens.”

Richie considers this slowly for a moment, and then frowns again, more desperately. “You _threw up _after you kissed me! You said you felt sick!”

“Mixing alcohol and weed can have that effect, Richie, _Jesus Christ!_” he retorts, agitated. “Why do you think I got so fucked up that night?” Eddie groans. “I was upset because I was leaving everyone, but especially you. I had this – feeling, like I knew it would never be the same again with us. It was the only time I had the courage to show you – how I felt, or whatever.”

“And then you threw up,” Richie responds, warily.

Eddie glares at him. “You know what, fuck you! I’m trying to be honest with you, for once, and you don’t believe me, asshole? What would I even _fucking _gain from lying to you about a stupid crush I used to have on you?”

Richie pales, and he tries to speak once or twice, unsuccessfully. He tries again. “I’m going to fuckin’ kill Stan,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Richie adds. He looks at Eddie, still wary. “You said _used_ _to_ though, right? I – I believe you, I guess even though I _can’t_ _believe _you didn’t – ” he breaks off. “Why are you telling me now?”

Eddie shakes his head, disbelievingly. “You’re really gonna make me do this, huh? You’re a real dick for that.”

Richie grins, despite himself.

Eddie can feel it raising his blood pressure. He feels like he can feel his pulse in his eyes, and his heart is beating like he’s just finished a track meet, a 5k run or something. “I told you that I’m not in love with my wife, and I only realised that yesterday, partly because what you said – while pretty shitty to hear – was also kind of true. Thinking about that, remembering what happened at the last party, I fucking thought it was obvious, but I guess I’ve gotta fucking _spell it out for you, because you _– ” he takes a breath. “I know what I said but I never stopped – thinking about you, ok asshole? I never felt for her what I did for you. Still do. I’m – gay. I think I might have always been.” He sighs deeply, oddly relieved. “Fuck, I’ve never said that out loud before.”

Richie looks slack-jawed with surprise. 

“Come on, it can’t have been that much of a surprise,” he says, lightly, and then the panic returns. _He’s not saying anything. He’s embarrassed._ Eddie’s thoughts run quickly to panic. Richie’s trying to let him down easily, because his childhood crush was not him, but someone like Bill. Or Mike. How is he supposed to compete with Mike? He’s extremely handsome, and a paragon of virtue! He teaches kids and volunteers at the library and probably helps old ladies with their groceries _all the time_! Eddie is a married risk analyst having some kind of midlife crisis, who has got into more than one argument at a Trader Joes!

Like Richie could do better, though! Mike is honestly too good for him, it’d be a terrible match.

“Fucking _say something_, Richie, I think I’m actually having a heart attack!” Eddie snaps. “Just tell me that I’ve made a horribly humiliating mistake, and then I can go back to bed and wake up when my life isn’t such a fucking disaster!”

Richie grins, and it lights up his whole face. “Sorry, Spaghedward, needed a moment to process. Come with me. We’re getting back in the car.”

Eddie glares at him in disbelief. “I hate you so much, _Jesus_. I’m not fucking getting in the car! I need to fucking know one way or the other, Richie, this is a hell of a fucking time to start being mysterious for the first time in your life!”

Richie grins even more. “One, I think you _don’t _hate me so much, and two,” he pauses, briefly, and his eyes are unexpectedly soft behind his glasses. “You didn’t make a mistake. But I really feel like I gotta show you this now. Trust me?”

Eddie sighs, and looks back at him. He can feel a smile tugging up the corners of his mouth. “Ok, fine.”

They get in the car in silence. It’s much warmer that the silence they had earlier. But, at least for Eddie, it’s the kind of silence where you think you might be dreaming, and if you try to say anything you’ll wake up, at home, next to your wife.

He can’t help sneaking looks at Richie. He has a feeling Richie might be doing the same, even though he’s driving. _You didn’t make a mistake. You didn’t make a mistake. You didn’t make a mistake. _

He has this feeling in his stomach – sort of a cautious, excited bubble of feeling – that he doesn’t feel like he’s had since he was a kid, and things were adventures and not just _adult life. _Even when they stopped being adventures, Richie was there. Giving him that feeling. Being friends with him was an adventure.

It’s not a long drive. Richie pulls up at the bridge where Ben got cut up. The kissing bridge. He feels a frisson of excitement and interest.

Richie looks at him for a second in the car, grins, and gets out. He looks sort of nervous, even though his grin is easy-going.

“Over here,” he says. “Follow me.”

Eddie walks over to a part of the bridge covered in scratched-in names and hearts and years. This particular section looks old. Kids used to scrawl their initials, their girlfriend’s initials, their boyfriend’s initials on this bridge, and it seems like they still do. He notices a newer-looking carving, _AM + DH 2007_. He wonders if they’re still together, hopes, strangely, that they are. He has no idea who they are, whether they still live here, but there’s something about it that stands out to him.

“I didn’t realise people were still carving names as recently as ’07,” he says quietly, and Richie follows his gaze.

“Wonder if they got out?” Richie says, glancing at Eddie. He searches the wood for something.

“There it is,” Richie says, crouching down, quieter than Eddie ever expects from him. Eddie looks where he’s pointing, and feels a shock of unexpected warmth, electrifying in a good way. It’s a little heart, roughly carved out – probably in a hurry – encircling three characters: _R + E_.

He crouches too, reaches out to touch it, like it’s not going to be real unless he can feel it. He can. It’s old, obviously, and faded, but it’s real beneath his fingers. Tangible proof he didn’t make a mistake.

“When?” he asks, looking at Richie. Richie was clearly watching for his reaction and looks slightly thrown off when Eddie looks at him.

“1989,” Richie says, and it’s so weird to hear him nervous like this.

Eddie gasps. “For that long?”

Richie smiles, awkwardly. “It was just after – that summer – and we _survived, _and I still couldn’t tell you how I felt because what if you hated me forever,” he makes a nervous little laugh at this. Eddie’s heart hurts at this, because there’s no way he could’ve hated Richie ever. “But I had to – I wanted to put it somewhere real, somewhere lasting, some kind of proof that I’m gay and he couldn’t fucking kill me and he couldn’t kill us and I loved you and you _saved_ me, you came to save me –”

Eddie can’t take it anymore. Heart racing, adrenaline pumping, he grabs Richie’s face and kisses him. Or tries to. Because of the awkward crouched position he bangs into both Richie’s glasses and his teeth somehow, and swears.

“Ow, Jesus, you trying to murder me, Eds?” Richie says, grinning crookedly.

Eddie rubs his nose, and scowls. “Fuck you, man! I thought we were having a moment. It’s ruined now.”

Richie grins wider. “The hell it is, Eduardo,” he says, and, slowly this time, watching where he’s going, he grabs Eddie and kisses him.

It’s much nicer, this time. He thinks, _oh right. This is what it’s supposed to feel like. _

They break apart. Eddie can’t help smiling, feeling warmth spreading around his whole body. Richie smiles too, an open, happy smile that he hasn’t seen in a long time. There’s no wall up, no attempt to be ahead of the joke.

They straighten up, fully aware they’re way past the age where they could stay in a squat for an extended period of time.

Richie looks suddenly concerned. “How are you feeling?”

Eddie smiles at him. “Aside from my knees? Great, actually. That was some kiss.”

Richie grins. “Not gonna be sick?”

Eddie groans. “Fuck you, man. That was _one time_. I’ll show you sick,” he mutters nonsensically, unable to stop grinning completely, and pulls him into another kiss. Longer this time.

After he lets Richie go again, they keep their faces close, breathing in the cold air.

“You really didn’t know how I felt?” Richie asks him, sounding surprised. “Because it seems like everybody-fuckin’-else picked up on it.”

Eddie half-laughs indignantly. “I had a lot going on!”

Richie laughs. “You thought I was just mooning over someone else?”

“Maybe!” Eddie retorts. He smiles, sheepish. “Actually, I did have a minor panic earlier that it was totally one-sided on my end, and you were about to tell me you’d been in love with Mike for the last twenty-seven years.”

“Mike?” Richie laughs, incredulously. “Love the guy. Big fan of his face and his hugs. C’mon though, he’s way too wholesome, way too good for me. My type is obviously short, feral guys who _will _yell at me in a Trader Joes or something.”

“Fuck you, I told you, 5’9” is average,” Eddie retorts, indignantly.

“See?” Richie says, so affectionately that Eddie can’t stay mad.

Richie laughs. “Also, Mike doesn’t need any more admirers. Learned _that _last night.”

“_Really_?” Eddie says, interested.

Richie grimaces. “Probably shouldn’t have said anything. It’s kind of a dramatic triangle situation, but I can’t say anything more until I know it’s alright.”

“Come _on,_” Eddie scolds. “You can’t just – say that, and then not tell me.”

Richie grins. “Bet I can distract you,” he says, and Eddie forgets his protest because he’s being kissed again. 

“I just realised something,” Richie says, gently.

“What?” Eddie says, just as gently, smiling easier than he has in a while.

“I’ve really gotta break up with your mom, now,” Richie says, and grins evilly.

Eddie stares at him, speechless. “_Really, seriously, _fuck you, Richie, I take it all back, I’ve made a horrible mistake,” he says, trying to frown at Richie, who just cackles and pulls him into another kiss. Eddie grins into it.

Eddie pulls away again, but not much. Richie wraps his arms around his waist. It’s very comforting. Richie turned out so tall, it’s almost annoying. Right now, not so much though. He likes looking up at Richie, the look of absolute warmth on his face making Eddie forget they’re outside at all.

He sighs. “Oh my god, I’ve gotta get a divorce.”

For a moment, a crack of reality pierces his happiness. He looks at Richie. “I mean – not to assume, like, I should probably get a divorce anyway, on account of the whole gay thing – but I guess we haven’t really talked about it, and I don’t expect you to wait –”

Richie looks back at him like he’s the most confounding, precious thing he’s ever come across. “Eds, you gorgeous weirdo – ” Eddie frowns, slightly, and Richie grins. “I guess we _should _probably talk about it, at some point. But if you think you’re getting rid of me that easy – I waited over twenty-seven fuckin’ _years _for you, a little more won’t kill me, ok?”

Eddie looks at him and can’t stop grinning, and then it just spills out. “I love you, you know? I think I’ve been in love with you longer than I can remember.” He lets out a breath. “Oh God, that was so soon, I’m sorry, it’s been a very emotional morning, and I’m –”

Richie looks at him, and Eddie’s kind of shocked to see his eyes are misty under his glasses, even though he looks happier and lighter than he’s seen him maybe ever. Richie takes his face in his hands, and his hands are somehow still warm. He smiles at him, something deep and emotional and years-long beneath the surface. “Me too, you absolute nutjob, was that not _obvious_ from the fact that I _carved it into this goddamn bridge,_” Richie says, starting to laugh. “I fuckin’ love you too, Eds.”

“Hey, fuck you, man, I was just trying to be – ” Eddie protests until Richie shuts him up again. Eddie thinks that for Maine in November, he’s not felt this warm in years.

***

Ben wakes up with a hangover. He hasn’t had a hangover in _years. _He can’t say he’s missed them.

For a moment in the dark, he wonders where the hell he is. He’s not unused to this feeling, with all the traveling he does. But the hangover is making him more disoriented than usual, headachy and cotton-mouthed and nauseous.

“Goddamnit Richie,” he mutters ruefully into the pillows, even though this time he can’t really blame Richie for his bad decisions. He remembers again, why he even has a hangover and groans, burying his face.

He’s gotta apologise to her. That is, if she’ll even talk to him.

What kind of person takes advantage like that?

And he can’t pretend he didn’t know about her situation. Maybe not every detail, but enough. Enough to know, to be able to tell that she was fragile. He shouldn’t have kissed her back.

He checks his phone. It’s way later than he generally wakes up, and he doesn’t really feel all that rested.

After a few more minutes of pretending he can get more sleep, he gives up, drags himself out of bed and into the shower.

He vaguely remembers Richie helping him check in here last night. Some B&B in – he thinks for a groggy moment, standing directly in the flow of the water – _Hampden_, right.

When he goes downstairs to ask reception where the closest pharmacy is, he remembers he let Richie take the car back to Derry. He’s gonna need to find a way back, because according to the woman at the desk, he’s not going to be able to get a cab back to town – something to do with some problem with the only company in the area. And he’s not exactly going to get an Uber around here. He checks out, not having brought more than his clothes and wallet with him in the first place.

He finds the pharmacy, buys the painkillers and a bottle of water. He takes them, and looks for Richie’s number in his phone.

He calls. It rings out. He calls again. It rings out again.

So he calls Eddie. His phone rings out as well.

It’s not looking good. He really hopes he doesn’t have to walk home from here, even though it’d probably be good exercise.

He hovers over Bill’s number, before coming to the conclusion that he can’t bear to explain why he’s ended up here. It isn’t Bill’s fault, but still.

He’s obviously not going to call Bev. He doesn’t want to put Stan out.

But there’s someone who he might actually be able to call.

He rings. It connects.

“Hey, man. I know this is totally out of the blue, but apparently I can’t get a cab back to Derry, so I have to ask you a favour – yeah, I’m in Hampden actually, long story – You sure? Don’t rush out here, I can get a coffee first, you want one? No? Thanks, man, you’re really a life saver. See you soon.”

He smiles, and hangs up the phone. Well, he’s got one win.

*

The car pulls up as he’s sipping his takeaway coffee – not great, but it’ll do – and feeling marginally more human.

He gets in, grateful to be out of the cold air. “Wow, you got here faster than I thought, thanks so much – I didn’t mean for you to drop everything and rush over. But thank you.”

Mike smiles warmly at him. “Don’t mention it, you can always call me if you need a hand. What are friends for, and all that?”

Ben smiles at him. “Well, you’re a great friend. I tried to get Richie to pick up, because he knew I was here already, but I couldn’t get him. So, you’re saving me.”

Mike shakes his head, navigating them out of town. He looks tired, now Ben looks at him. Tired and kind of wrung-out, and he still dropped everything to pick him up, in a different town. Ben feels another wave of fierce affection for him. They really don’t deserve him.

“So,” Mike asks, casually, but there’s a slight edge to it. “Were you with Richie last night? He take you out drinking?”

Ben shakes his head. He’s momentarily surprised that Mike, of all people sounds put out, even with Richie – until he remembers the whole mess with Stan and Richie that he was been around for.

“No, it was just me – I mean, Richie came with, but he stayed sober. I’m now wishing I’d done the same,” he says, sighing.

“I understand the feeling,” Mike says, with grim humour.

Ben looks at him. “You too? Good night?”

Mike chuckles drily, sort of awkward. “Uh…I don’t know. It was fine. I’m too old to be drinking like that, though.”

“Yep, agreed,” Ben says with feeling. He’s curious now, though. “You go out with Bill and Stan?”

Mike definitely winces. Ben pulls back. He doesn’t want to pry.

“Just – Bill,” he says shortly. He pauses, before changing the subject. “So, why didn’t Richie stay with you?”

Ben looks at him. “He had some people to apologise to. I think he was planning to see Stan first.”

Mike softens, a little. “Glad to hear it.” He sighs. “I hope they worked it out.”

There’s something so very sad about the way Mike says it. Ben feels a pang in his chest. He thinks about Richie talking in the bar last night. Maybe Stan wasn’t the only one he hurt yesterday.

“I’m…I’m sure they did, Mike,” he tries to reassure Mike, disappointed he’s not doing better. “Are you…doing ok?”

Mike smiles, keeping his eyes on the road. “Yeah, I’m fine. Bit of a – morning, but I’m fine.” He pauses. “I’m good.” Mike glances sideways at him. “What about you? What made you and Richie decide to go bar hopping a town over?”

Ben’s not sure he’s being totally honest, but he’s not going to pry for now. “I – uh – ” he starts. He looks at Mike. “Did she already tell you?”

Mike hesitates, then nods. “Yeah, she did.”

Ben rubs his face with his hands. “Ah man,” he groans. “I know. I’m a total _asshole_. All I can say in my defence is – we just had this _moment, _and it was just us and we were out at the quarry and I got very nostalgic –”

“Wait, wait, wait – ” Mike interrupts, not unkindly. “Why do you think you’re the asshole here, Ben? Not that anyone is, really, but from what she told me it’s – definitely not you.”

Ben is shocked out of his spiralling for a moment, looking at Mike. “Really?”

“Absolutely,” Mike says, kindly.

Ben sighs, and looks down. “That’s really nice of you, but it’s…not true.”

“Why not?” Mike asks, without judgement.

“Because she’s going through _so much _right now, Mike. I can’t even begin to –” Ben breaks off, and takes a moment. “She didn’t need some guy – _hitting on her_, right now. God. What kind of selfish person does that?”

Mike shakes his head. “Ben, come on. She said she kissed you. Hardly seems like you hit on her. Go easy on yourself.”

Ben stares out the window, frowning. “I don’t know – I feel like I, I should have stopped it before she did. Anyway, pretty sure she hates me now. She couldn’t run away fast enough, Mike. I freaked her out. Which is fair, I totally betrayed her trust. I just hope she’ll let me talk to her.”

Mike does something unexpected, and drives onto the road shoulder and stops.

“Mike! What are you – ” he starts, surprised.

Mike turns and looks at him, sympathetic but also almost kind of annoyed. “I need to not be driving while I say this – Ben, come on,” he says, exasperatedly. “You gotta stop doing this to yourself, man! You think so much about others – you always put everyone else’s feelings above your own – and you’re making yourself miserable. How you feel is valid, too, alright? It’s alright if you’re mad.”

Ben looks back at him, and feels a familiar wave of affection for him. Always there for his friends.

“Thanks, Mike,” he says, feeling his cheeks warm, but unable to totally keep from smiling.

“Anytime,” Mike says, warmly, breaking into a smile. “I just worry about you, alright?”

Ben shakes his head. “You don’t need to. I’m alright, really.”

“I mean, the fact you needed a lift home might prove otherwise,” Mike says, lightly teasing.

Ben feels his cheeks warming up even more, and he looks out of the window, and back. “I’m really sorry I had to call you out here, thanks again. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important.”

Mike shakes his head. “Lucky for you I’m an early riser, and I’ve already gotten a lot done today.”

Ben smiles, surprised. “With a hangover to boot. Are you secretly Superman?”

Mike chuckles. “I should ask you the same thing, man. And if I was, would I be likely to tell you?”

Ben laughs. “True. Although I’m pretty good at keeping secrets.”

Mike laughs, but there’s a knowing, sad edge to it this time. Ben wonders if it’s to do with last night, whatever he’s not saying.

Mike sighs, his eyes soft and caring. “So, like I said, it’s alright if you _are _mad. But I gotta tell you – even though she might get mad at me for it – Bev’s really torn up about what happened –“

Ben’s stomach drops.

“Not because of anything you did – “ Mike clarifies quickly, probably clocking his expression. “Because I know she’s feeling awful about running off.” He smiles sympathetically. “You know her. She freaks out sometimes, but she never would’ve wanted to hurt you.”

Ben nods. “Yeah,” he says, after a moment.

He’s quiet for a moment, trying to process. There’s a strange, small, swelling – well a wisp, really – of rising hope in his gut. “So, she’s…not mad at me?”

“Honestly, Ben, not at all,” Mike says, genuinely. “I think she’d really like a chance to apologise, though.”

He nods again, slowly. “Of – of course. She’s really not mad?” He can’t quite believe it, even though he trusts Mike implicitly.

Mike beams. “Absolutely not. Who could be mad at you?”

Ben waves a hand, smiling abashedly. “Oh, stop, Mikey.”

Mike chuckles. “You ready to get back to Derry, now?”

“Alright, let’s do it. There’s someone I need to see.”

“That’s my guy,” Mike says, triumphantly.

When they’re on the road again, Ben looks at Mike as he stares ahead.

“Hey, Mike?” he starts, carefully.

“Mm?” Mike replies placidly.

He hesitates, and then decides to keep on. Mike cared enough to try and listen to his problems, to try and act as a go-between. He owes it to him to try, at least. “I really appreciate you picking me up, and not only that, but trying to make things good between Bev and I. Trying to make me feel better.”

Mike smiles. “That’s alright. I do it because I care about you, man. And her, obviously. I just want you to be both happy.”

“Thanks,” Ben says, with a small smile. “I want that for you…I know we haven’t talked in a while, like we used to, but I think we’re probably still pretty similar. Keeping a lot in and not saying when we’re – feeling shitty, or upset, or whatever. So…” he pauses. “I’m not saying you feel like that, or that you have to - but if you did…you could talk to me about it.”

Mike’s smile slips a little, and Ben instantly feels guilty. He’s done the wrong thing. Not _again. _

He pauses before opening his mouth, and glances briefly at Ben. He smiles again, gratefully, and Ben feels deeply relieved. “Thanks, man. Guess we’re still kind of two peas, huh?”

Ben smiles, remembering. “Yep.”

Mike sighs. “You might get this then.”

“Alright,” Ben says, gently. “No judgement here. Obviously.”

Mike nods, a little, smiling. “Appreciate it.” He takes a beat. “So, hypothetical for you. Kind of heavy. You don’t have to answer, if you’re not up to it right now.”

Ben shakes his head. “No, I’m listening. Hit me.”

Mike pauses again. “Ok, so we know Bev’s husband is a – _fucking _monster, and if I got near him –” his voice shakes with uncharacteristic anger.

“Yeah, I’m 100 percent with you there,” he says quietly, but fiercely. Mike’s generally so amiable it can be easy to forget that he has such a depth of feeling for the people he loves, and you don’t want to be someone that’s hurt any of them.

“Right,” Mike says, quietly. “But…putting that to one side. Say it wasn’t him. Say it was someone else, and he was the love of her life. Say he’d actively made her better, and they’d been separated for other reasons. Like, they were almost certainly not going to get back together, but you knew he’d always be the love of her life…” He pauses again. “Would it change how you felt? Would you have kissed her back?”

Ben is surprised by the question. It feels like a peek into something very complicated that he can’t begin to understand right now, with his limited knowledge of what Mike’s life is like now. He thinks about it. “I…don’t know,” he says, honestly. “I guess I – I feel bad enough having done that when she’s trying to cope with leaving a terrible person. I’m sure I would’ve…felt worse if I knew that she was really thinking of someone else better when she kissed me. It’d be hard to get away from that, maybe.”

Mike’s expression darkens, and Ben wonders if he was looking for a more positive answer. “So you wouldn’t have…followed that road anywhere? You would’ve just accepted that you weren’t going to happen?”

Ben looks at him, concerned. “Look, Mike. People have baggage, I don’t have to tell you that. I’m not really the right person to give advice about this, especially when I don’t know the context, but…I guess, it’s not like decades and decades but – Bill and her have history, and they still care _a lot _about each other, which is totally fair –”

Ben could swear Mike twitches at this, but he doesn’t comment on it. “But just because a relationship is important, was important, doesn’t mean you should just…decide for that person that it was their only shot at happiness, Mike. Seems kind of…unfair, I don’t know.”

Mike glances at him, looking strangely happier. “Right. You’re better than you give yourself credit for, you know, Benjamin?”

Ben smiles, feeling himself blushing again. “Any chance you’ll tell me who this person is?”

Mike sighs again. “I really would, Ben. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I just can’t right now. But I appreciate you listening.”

“Anytime, Mike,” he replies, smiling. “I care about you too.”

Mike beams.

***

Mike drops him off at the guesthouse, first. He smiles kindly. “Well, whatever happens, I hope it goes well. I’m rooting for you, though.”

Ben smiles, heartened. “Really?”

Mike nods. “Of course! I want her to figure out what she wants, and I want her to be happy even on her own. Especially on her own. But I think you’d make her very happy. You’ve never been the hurting type. And I think you both deserve to be happy.”

Ben looks at him, again overwhelmed with affection. “I know you don’t wanna talk about it, but…I really hope whatever’s going on with you – whoever it is that’s got you feeling like this – I’m rooting for you to work it out. You really – especially – deserve to be happy.”

Mike looks at him, smiling, eyes misting-up. “Thanks, Ben,” he says, only a little huskily.

“Thanks for everything else today, Mike,” he replies, grinning.

Ben gets out of the car.

“Good luck!” Mike calls, waving.

“You too!” Ben waves back, watching the car go before he turns back to the building. Mike had said he’d dropped her back here, but she might not be here now.

He should’ve called first. He didn’t even think about that, too hungover, too distracted on the way here.

He takes the stairs somewhat apprehensively, then pauses before the front door. He can do this. He can definitely do this. He can talk to her and trust that Mike wasn’t just trying to make him feel better by saying she isn’t mad at him. He can apologise. He can do this, right?

He reaches for the handle and it moves without him touching. Before he can process anything, it opens and he almost smacks into the red-head in the doorway who looks shocked to see him.

His heart thumps fast.

***

Bev had been hanging around her room since Mike had dropped her back. It felt like they’d had a really nice morning together, surprising only considering all the crying and screaming they’d also done.

She’d taken a short nap – the kind where you don’t really lose consciousness but you still feel cosy and rested from just lying down for a while – and had gotten up, and decided to stop being a baby. She had decided she would just knock on Ben’s door and talk to him. Like an adult.

But he hadn’t opened the door. After a few minutes of talking to it, she’d decided he was either out or very good at pretending, and had decided to go out, maybe talk to Stan about it. She hadn’t seen him since yesterday morning, and she had felt like they might have some things to talk about.

But she hadn’t at all been expecting to run into someone the literal moment she’d opened the door.

Ben’s standing on the porch, looking tired and – taken aback, to see her. He looks a bit rumpled, still wearing the clothes he’d been wearing yesterday.

“Oh,” she says, faintly. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he says tentatively.

“You didn’t sleep here last night?” she asks, and cringes internally.

“No,” he says, slowly.

“You go to Stan’s?”

He furrows his brow, seeming more surprised than annoyed by the question. “Uh, no. I went over to Hampden for a drink with Richie, and ended up staying the night.”

She feels her stomach drop. _Right. Of course. Makes sense. _

“Richie got drunk again last night?” she realises, a little disappointed, more worried.

Ben shakes his head. “No, he just came to hang out with me. He was sober.”

She breathes a little easier, hearing that. “Glad to hear it. Did he come back with you?”

“No, he went home last night.” Ben replies.

“Right,” she says, stomach sinking more.

He looks at her, and she looks back at him. Neither of them move. The silence between them is so uncomfortable and thick it’s almost a tangible barrier.

“I’m sorry – ” she says, at the same time as him. The barrier melts a little.

He half-smiles.

“Do you wanna come in? I’ve totally been holding you up,” she says, standing aside.

“You really haven’t,” he says, nicely. He passes through the door, closes it, then and then looks at her. “Weren’t you going out?”

“Yeah, uh, it can wait,” she says, keeping his gaze.

He looks surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah,” she says.

They look at each other.

“I need to – ” she says, at the same time that he says, “Bev, I have to –” 

He blushes, smiling abashedly. “You want to –“ he asks, nodding politely.

She smiles a little too, half-embarrassed, half-amused. “No, you go.”

He nods, cheeks still pink. He takes a breath, and looks back at her. His eyes are sadder, and her stomach sinks again. How could she have hurt him? She deserves whatever he’s about to say to her, but that doesn’t mean she wants him to say it. 

“Bev, I –” he starts, frowning. “I was – totally inappropriate yesterday, and I really hope you can forgive me, because I’m so sorry –“

“Wait,” she says, blindsided by the apology. His face falls. “No, no, Ben, what? Why are you apologising – everything that happened was on me?” she continues, genuinely taken aback.

Ben still looks guilty. “I shouldn’t have – told you. Shown you the yearbook page. I _know _things are already super complicated with you, I was being selfish putting all of that on you. I’m really sorry.”

It tears at her heart, that he looks so torn up about it. Of all things, _he’s _trying to apologise to _her. _She’s so full of regret and shame.

She shakes her head, frowning. “Ben, Ben, stop. Thanks for saying that, that’s really nice but – I can’t stand you looking like this, apologising to me. I was the asshole, ok? Just let me – let me be the one to apologise.”

He still looks sad. “You really don’t have to – ” he starts.

“I want to,” she cuts him off, pained. She stares at him. “God, I – where do I begin?”

She sighs. “I shouldn’t have run off, firstly. That was childish, and I’m really sorry if I freaked you out,” she says, feeling ashamed all over again. “What can I say, being here is a constant battle against reverting to acting like a kid again.”

“I get the feeling,” Ben adds faintly. He’s still looking kind of sad, but curious too, now.

“Yeah,” she says, with a sad smile. She can’t hold it for long. “Ben, I’m – I’m so sorry I hurt you, I know I was a _total_ asshole, and I understand if you need some time to forgive me. If you ever want to do that.”

Ben smiles in the same sad way, and shakes his head. “Of course I forgive you, Bev. You’re going through a lot right now. I wasn’t even mad, but if I had been it would have been hard to stay mad. It’s you. I could never – stay mad at you.” He smiles at her. He doesn’t seem disappointed in her. She had expected this, if he wasn’t mad. So it should be good, but it doesn’t feel like it. His eyes are too sad.

“Let’s just – ” he starts. “Can we just forget it all? I can’t – I don’t want to lose you as a friend. I mean, if it’s not too weird for you. I’d get that.” He says it so kindly, so understanding. It kills her.

Again, Bev is blindsided. She’d run a lot of mental outcomes, but somehow she hadn’t thought about this.

“Ben – ” she starts, after a pause. “I – if that’s what you want, I don’t want to make you unhappy, we…we can.” She breaks off and stares at him. “But it’s not what I want, Ben. Or – I don’t know. I want to explain. Then maybe you can make up your mind?” 

Ben looks surprised again, and nods slightly. He looks sad though, almost like he doesn’t know what to feel. “Alright.”

“Thank you,” she says, quietly. “I know I freaked out on you, and I said a lot of things, and again, I am so, so, completely sorry for hurting you. It wasn’t intentional, I just – at the time I thought it would be better in the long run.”

His expression clouds. “What do you mean?”

She looks back at him, guilt rising again. “I’m a fucking _mess_, Ben. I barely remember how to be in a functional relationship, I’ve had like, two in total, and they were literal _decades_ ago. I have so much to deal with – getting out of my sham of a goddamn marriage, and everything there – I just thought you deserved someone better. And less complicated.”

Ben doesn’t say anything, eyes locked on her, still looking sad.

She continues. “I had such a nice day with you yesterday, too,” she says, full of remorse. “You were so – kind.” She has to stop for a moment, her voice squeaking over the last word. He looks pained for a moment, opening his mouth as if to say something, but then stopping himself.

She shakes her head. “It _kills _me that you’re thinking you did something wrong, here.” She looks at him, miserably. “You didn’t. And I feel like I should apologise, again, to you because – I shouldn’t have kissed you. I just got caught up in the emotion, I was…so _touched _that you kept it, Ben. Don’t feel bad for showing me that, because it meant so much to me.”

Ben looks even more miserable. “Right,” he says weakly. He looks down for a moment, and swallows. “You – don’t have to apologise. We both got caught up.”

“Oh,” she says, and it makes her feel like crying. She keeps it together. “Yeah.”

There’s another silence. Then Ben says, “So, if you could go back to yesterday, though…you wouldn’t do it again?” He doesn’t say it sceptically, either.

She looks at him, seriously. “No. I don’t regret it.”

Ben’s eyes widen.

“I just want to tell you what happened.” She pauses, uncertain, then continues. “I _liked _kissing you. I was happy – happier than I’d felt in a really long time, actually – and I really wish I could have stayed like that, but then, uh – ” her voice catches. Ben’s eyes are glued to her, full of deep concern, and a flash of anxiety passes over his face when she breaks off. She really doesn’t deserve him.

Her throat is tight, but she’s determined to explain this. It’s hard to look at him though, so unfairly worried for her. Why isn’t he angry? “It’s – my head is full of these fucking _voices_ – ” she spits out, sniffling. “It’s Tom, and my fucking _dad_, and they know every one of my insecurities, they know exactly where to press…” she sighs, bitterly. “God, I sound fucking _nuts._”

Ben just shakes his head, looks at her with deep empathy, and asks, “What do they say? If you – if you want to tell me, you can, is what I mean.”

She stares at him, already tearing up. “Shades of what they’ve said in the past. Memories. That I’m – that I’m – damaged, dirty, broken – ” She breaks off into a sob, and Ben moves forward, seemingly instinctively, like he wants to comfort her. He still seems tentative, like he won’t move forward until he definitely knows it’s what she wants. He’s too _good. _

“Bev, just – ” he starts, and it hurts to hear how pained he sounds. He keeps eye contact, empathetic and devastated for her. “I know I can’t just – tell you, and it’ll erase all of that for you. I _wish_ it could. You’re so not…I mean, damaged? We’re all just as damaged. It’s what we went through. It’s why we care about each other so damn much. And I care about you, so much –” His voice breaks. “It kills me to hear you tearing yourself up like this. Those voices were cruel, but they weren’t _right._” He shakes his head, and looks at her with a kind of fierce affection. “Actually, screw it, even if you think they’re right, and you think you are everything they said – I’d still – ” he breaks off, and gulps. Maybe he’s afraid to say it again. She can’t blame him, she’d certainly given him a reason to be. “I’d still care _so much _about you. It’s not about caring about someone because they’re perfect, it’s – seeing all the sharp, painful bits and – accepting them. Caring about them. Because they’re part of someone who is just – amazing.”

He breathes heavily.

She looks at him, helplessly, still crying. “This is what I mean, you’re too _good_, Ben. You’re too good for me!”

“What does that even _mean_?” Ben says, exasperated but not aggressively so. Even now, he’s still taking care not to get angry. He was never an angry kid, but that didn’t mean she’d never seen him get angry. And he should be angry at her, but he isn’t. So she’ll feel safe. Too _good. _

“It means – ” she says, and sighs. “It means, you’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. You always make sure everyone’s alright before your think about yourself. You accommodate me, and you don’t complain, and you’re not even mad now even though I wouldn’t blame you if you were. If we were – if you were with me, I’d probably hurt you. I wouldn’t mean to, but I would –“ she breaks off, sniffs. “And I couldn’t live with myself if I did that to you. Because I care about you _so fucking much_, Ben.”

Ben’s eyes light up a bit at this, even though he still looks worried. He looks at her very softly, and it breaks her heart. “Bev, I – I wouldn’t expect you to never hurt me. I can’t promise I wouldn’t ever hurt you. I _can _promise I would never try to. I _can _promise that I’d always try and listen to you if I accidentally hurt you.” He smiles at her, a little.

“Why are you smiling?” she asks, sniffling, fighting a smile herself.

He colours a little, and she feels a pang in her heart. He looks away and then back, embarrassed.

“Because – I thought you didn’t, um, feel the same. But if you did - if it’s something else, I guess…there’s a shot. If you wanted to.”

She wipes her eyes, and smiles sadly at him. “Ben, I…it’s fucking _terrifying _to admit, but I – I haven’t felt like this in a long time. I don’t know when it happened. I just saw you and it was like, _oh there you are. _Not like – not like seeing the others, not even how it felt to see Bill again – ” she sighs. “It’s just – _you. _I have – there are…feelings. That I have just for you. And it’s so great to see you thriving, because you absolutely – you fucking _deserve _to be thriving. But you’re like this gorgeous, kind, well-adjusted, successful person now, and I’m a mess. I can’t –” she says, tearing up again. “I can’t – be the kind of person you need, right now. I don’t think I even remember how to be in a normal relationship with anyone anymore.”

Ben looks kind of dazed, even though he clearly knew she felt some kind of way. Maybe it’s different hearing it confirmed. He stares at her, and shakes his head. “I can’t believe – Bev, you think I’m better than you? You think I’m well-adjusted?” he says, in disbelief.

She smiles, a little, even though she still mostly just feels like crying. “Well, more well-adjusted than the rest of us.”

He chuckles, tiredly. “I’m really not. Ask my therapist.” He sighs, looking at her strangely. “Everyone else has this idea of me, and I let them think it’s true because it works better for me. But you…you _know _me. You know I’ve always been like, this huge nerd with bad taste in pop music and cheesy sci-fi paperbacks. I haven’t – changed, or become cooler, or anything, not really.”

“Really?” she says, smiling despite herself.

“Really,” he says, smiling abashedly, cheeks going pink again. “I am too busy and old to know what’s happening in pop culture, but I heard a Taylor Swift song on the radio last year and I ended up buying her album on iTunes. Which, I’m _so_ uncool I don’t even regret doing, because it reminds me of the kind of pop music we grew up with and it is _actually_ a great album, but I also live in fear of any of my subordinates hacking into my iTunes account and finding out my secret.” He looks almost magenta at this point, but he’s still smiling. “How’s that for not having changed?”

She grins, but it’s not mean. “Firstly, shut up, that album _is _great, live your truth!” He grins. “Secondly,” her smile sinks a little. “That just makes me like you more. Seems like you’re so confident in yourself now you can admit that to me. But I can’t put my stuff on you, it’s _heavy. _It’s not just – embarrassing,” she says, and her voice wavers. “It’s totally _fucked-up_, and you don’t have to take that on.”

He stares at her, his smile fading too. “I know that – I want to,” he says, gently. “If you want me to.”

She sniffs. “I – ” she stares back at him. “I _really _want you to.”

He takes a tentative step towards her. He looks at her softly again, and she feels faint. “Then we can…figure it out, you know? All of the rest of it. Because – I think we might have something. And because I haven’t felt like this in so long, either.”

She moves towards him, slowly. Nervous – but for the first time in a long time, in a good way. They’re quite close now.

She reaches a hand up to his face, but she can’t quite touch him. He’s very still as he watches her.

“Is it everything with your husband?” he asks, with quiet understanding. “Is it too much, right now?”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s not that –” she starts, and takes a breath. She blinks and looks at him. “I know I said you were in love with a version of me that doesn’t exist. That wasn’t fair. But – I’m just new to this, Ben. I just realised I might have feelings for you, and you’ve known about yours for years. Decades.” She pauses, looking up at him, pained. “I can’t live up to that length of time. What if…what if I disappoint you?”

Ben smiles at her, and she feels like she might melt. “How could you _ever_ disappoint me? I told you before, you know me. But I also know you – maybe I have to catch up a few bits, but I _know _you. The most important bits.” He chuckles lightly. “Did I ever tell you about the first time I saw you?”

She smiles, surprised. “No, I don’t believe you did.”

Ben nods. “Well, it was my first day. And as I’m _sure _you remember, kids weren’t exactly welcoming. I was a shy, fat kid and all I wanted to do was fade into the background, but I stuck out. I was just having this terrible first day, dreading coming back to school tomorrow, and then I saw _you. _This beautiful red-headed girl, and you seemed different, too. You looked lonely, too. I wanted to talk to you. I thought we could be friends. But I chickened out, and I didn’t talk to you until the first time we met. I definitely had a crush on you then, and that _was _an idealised of you, made up of glimpses in social studies, and one or two actual times I’d talked to you. I didn’t really know you.”

He pauses, and she almost can’t keep looking at him, the way he’s looking at her. “But then – everything happened, and we –” his voice catches. “We almost died. And we survived. And I was just – bonded to all you guys. It was different after that. I _loved _you, because I loved everyone, but it was _you. _You were gutsy, and fierce and unflinchingly brave and unbelievably kind. And suddenly, it wasn’t just some stupid childish crush, I was just - so in love with you.”

She looks at him, smiling wistfully. “Why didn’t you ask me out, then?”

He looks away for a moment. “Come on, really?” he says, weakly. “I was shy, and you and Bill had this…connection, and it doesn’t – it didn’t matter. I didn’t care if you ever knew or reciprocated, I just knew that I’d love you, in some way, probably forever.”

“Sounds lonely,” she says, sadly.

He looks away, reddening again. “I – I was afraid of ruining the group. I couldn’t imagine losing any of you, and I didn’t want it to change.” His voice catches again, and he adds very quietly, “And I, I guess I didn’t think you’d pick me.”

Bev looks at him, and she sees him – so different now, and yet still the kid she knew – and she reaches a tentative hand out to pat his arm, comfortingly. He leans into the touch. “Hey. You know why I chose Bill?”

Ben looks wary. “Why?”

“Because he asked me out! And I’m glad he did, I love him, I don’t regret our relationship, but,” she says, and sighs. “You took yourself out of the running before I even had a chance to figure it out.”

Ben looks minorly shocked by this. “You would have gone out with me, then? Like…that?”

She strokes his arm, smiling. “Ben, of course.”

He looks strangely uncomfortable, and looks away. He seems like he’s about to say something, but is hesitating, or struggling with the words. “What if I’d never lost the weight? Would you still be…attracted to me?” he spits out the last few words like a bad taste, quiet and embarrassed but clearly needing to know.

She moves her hand up to his face, and his cheek is warm. She feels him shiver. He can’t make eye contact with her, he’s so embarrassed.

“Hey, look at me,” she says, gently. He does, and he looks the most insecure and ashamed she’s seen him in a while. Her heart bursts for him. If she could just make sure he never had to feel that way again, she’d take it on herself. She smiles warmly, keeping his gaze. “I’m not gonna pretend I haven’t noticed, or that I don’t think you look _insanely hot_ – “ A blush creeps into his cheeks, but he keeps her gaze. “But all of – _that_ – isn’t why I like you. It’s great, but it’s your big _heart_, and your _smile, _and – _you. _And everything you had back before you had abs. That’s what I love about you.” 

Ben’s eyes widen, and he looks nowhere near as upset as he had earlier. “That’s what you love about me?”

She’s surprised by it. She hadn’t even realised that’s what she’d said, but it’s true. It doesn’t even hurt, now that it’s out. “Yes,” she says simply. “Don’t forget it.”

His face lights up, but he looks a little sheepish. “Sorry I got weird.” He sighs. “Still think I’m still well-adjusted?”

She grins. “Hey, it makes me feel better about this thing, with us. You’ve always been this…beautiful person, Ben. It’s just that people didn’t try to see it before.”

He stares down at her, looking at her like he doesn’t want to blink ever again. “And you’ve always been kinder than you had any right to be, Bev.”

Bev’s heart feels like it might burst, it’s so full. “If I promise not to freak out again, can I kiss you?” she whispers, smiling.

Ben beams. “You could probably ask me to do anything right now and I’d agree, just so you know.”

“Interesting,” she says, and raises an eyebrow.

A thought occurs to her, and her buoyant happiness sinks a little. She could just leave it – but if she’s going to start this thing, whatever it is, she’s going to start it off on the right foot.

She hasn’t moved her hand. She strokes his cheek, and he notices the slight change in her mood. “What is it?” he asks gently, concerned.

“Nothing bad,” she says, honestly. “But I want to be honest, just in case someone tells you about it before I can.”

Ben looks curious, but trusting. “Alright, I’m ready,” he says, smiling.

She feels a small pang of anxiety, but pushes it away. Ben’s not Tom. They couldn’t be more different. “Last night I got drunk, because I was sad about you. With Bill…we almost kissed. But we didn’t,” she says, with an awkward half-chuckle. “I just…thought you should know. I’m sorry if that was a weird thing to say, and I’ve ruined the moment now –”

He looks at her, and her heart hammers, then he grins at her. “Well, I got drunk last night too, over you, so no judgement. And you didn’t even kiss. Not that I’m your boyfriend or anything, so it doesn’t really matter, but I’m glad you didn’t.”

Relief floods through her body, and she beams. “Me too, _believe_ me.”

They smile at each other, unable to do anything else. She’s almost forgotten where they are, or that anyone else in the world exists but the two of them. “I’m going to kiss you now,” she tells him, and he smiles even more. There’s so much love in him, it’s like it leaks out of his very pores. All that love, going to waste for so long. She strokes his cheek, and pulls him down into a kiss.

It’s a good kiss. When the voices start up, she’s able to shut them out this time, like they’re on a bad radio frequency.

She leans into him after it, unable to stop smiling. “And if _you_ hooked up with someone when you were drunk last night, I’d get it. You don’t even have to tell me,” she whispers.

He chuckles, sounding surprised. “I didn’t though – I slept at a B&B last night.”

“Oh!” she says, and then laughs, embarrassed. “Well, I’m glad.”

He smiles at her like he can’t quite believe she’s real, and pulls her gently into another kiss.

Distantly, she knows she shouldn’t be making out with someone in the lobby of this weird guesthouse, but the staff are always in the backroom anyway. She figures she deserves a few minutes of uncomplicated happiness. It’s the least this town can do for them both.

***

Back at his apartment, Mike puts the kettle on. Being at the stove is weird, and it shouldn’t be. It reminds him that just two days ago, Stan was standing in front of it, cooking bacon and being crabby. He’d been nice to Mike though. He’d waited to make Mike’s so they could eat it together.

Mike shakes his head. Going over little things like this isn’t helping him in the long run. Or the short run, to be honest. Trying to read into these things one way or the other hurts, and he never reaches a satisfying answer, so he needs to just stop.

He’s not sure what to do with the rest of his day. There’s probably some work that he could catch up with before he goes back to school tomorrow, but he’s not sure he has the energy.

He hears a knock on his front door. This is a mystery because it’s mid-morning, and he hasn’t buzzed anyone up. Maybe it’s one of his neighbours.

He opens the front door, and his chest tightens.

“How’d you get up here?” he asks quietly, crossing his arms.

***

Stan walks up the stairs to Mike’s floor, heart pounding something embarrassing. He’s just coming to apologise. If Richie – _Richie _– could be mature enough to face his demons and apologise to Eddie, or at the very least attempt an adult conversation with him, then Stan can do this. He can be brave enough to do this.

He knocks on the door, suddenly realising that he doesn’t even know where Mike is. Or if he’s home. He hasn’t seen him since –

The door opens and Mike stands in the doorway, crossing his arms. He looks deeply tired, and red-eyed. Stan feels a pang for him. “How’d you get up here?”

“I, uh, a really nice old man let me in. He said he knows you,” Stan explains.

Mike frowns. “You shouldn’t take advantage of Mr Petrakis, he’s very trusting. And he gives me free cherry tomatoes from his pot plants.”

Stan puts his hands up. “I wasn’t taking advantage, he saw me waiting outside, trying to get up the courage to call. He thought I might be cold, and asked me who I was looking for.”

Mike looks no less unimpressed, but maybe a bit more anxious. “What’d you say to him?”

“Just that I was looking for my friend,” Stan says, honestly. “Because I needed to talk to him.”

“We’ve talked a lot,” Mike says, tiredly. “I’ve had a pretty exhausting morning, I’m not sure I can handle anymore.”

Stan looks at him, heart sinking. “I get that you don’t want to see me right now. I wouldn’t either. But I –” he says, voice straining. “I need to apologise. Please let me apologise, Mike, I don’t even have to come in, but it’s maybe not a conversation you want to have in this public-ish hallway?”

Mike looks at him for a long moment, only broken by the shriek of a kettle. He jumps a little, looks back into his apartment, then looks back at Stan.

He sighs, shaking his head. “Come in, then. I’ve gotta turn the kettle off anyway.”

Stan tries not to seem too pleased. Mike certainly doesn’t seem so.

He follows Mike back into his apartment and waits at the opening of the kitchen area. He’s not sure how far Mike wants him to come in. He looks around, remembering how comforting this place was a few days ago. Cosy and full of books and interesting things. Very Mike.

Mike turns the burner off, but doesn’t take the kettle off. He turns around and looks at Stan, brow furrowed.

Stan looks back at him, unsure of how to start.

“You can come into the kitchen, come on,” Mike says, almost annoyed, but not quite.

Stan nods, and steps into the kitchen. Mike rests against the countertop next to the oven, looking uncomfortable. Stan stops next to the little dining island counter opposite Mike, giving him a fair bit of space.

“Thanks,” he says, grateful.

Mike shrugs.

There’s an awkward silence.

“So, you wanted to talk?” It’s not cold, exactly, but exhausted. And like he’s got very little patience left.

“Yeah,” Stan says quickly. It’s hard to look at him, but if this is going to work at all he has to. He takes a breath, wishing he could get his heartbeat under control. He takes a deep breath. “I’m so _sorry, _Mike. I really fucked up, and I freaked out on you, and you didn’t deserve it, and I’m – I’m just so fucking _sorry_.” His voice is already tightening at an alarming rate. “That was – completely – on me, and I shouldn’t have said any of it.”

Mike looks affected already, irritation bleeding out of his expression leaving only sadness in its place. He nods slowly. “Yeah, I…that hurt.” He looks back at Stan, sadly. “I appreciate you coming to apologise, though.”

Stan’s hope sinks a little more. “I had to. I should’ve come sooner, I should’ve come –” his voice hitches, and he flashes on the kiss he’d seen just outside this building, last night. “I wanted to give you some space. But you have to know, I regretted it the minute I – I said it, Mike.”

Mike looks at him, and the hurt in his eyes registers like tiny stab wounds, physically painful to look back at. “I know, man,” Mike says, quietly. He looks around uncomfortably. He seems to hesitate, and then speaks again. “I wanna be able to just, forgive you, and be cool, I’m just…” he pauses, and tries again. “I know you regret saying what you did. But did you… mean it?”

Mike says it in such a small, hurt way that Stan’s heart hurts. “No, _God_, absolutely not,” Stan says, feeling suddenly desperate to explain himself, to prove it to Mike. “I was an idiot, ok? I was feeling shitty about myself, and I put that on you, but it was so _not true, _Mike. You’ve done nothing but help me, _always_,” he says, voice breaking. “Especially, recently with… everything, I’m just such an _asshole _–” he breaks off, and finds he’s starting to cry already. Which he wasn’t going to do, for _fuck’s sake_.

Mike already looks empathetic, and he doesn’t deserve it. He looks at Stan, softer. “Hey, hey, it’s ok, Stan. I forgive you, I really, I do,” he says, genuinely, voice tight. “You’re not an asshole. You might _act _like one at times, but you’re not one.”

Stan coughs out a surprised half-laugh, wetly. “Thanks. I’m working on it.”

Mike almost smiles, still a little too sad. The edge of his mouth quirks up on one side, anyway.

There’s another silence, just sort of quiet and sad, heavy with hesitation and the things that haven’t been said. Perhaps shouldn’t be said.

Stan lets out a sigh. “Maybe this is weird to say right now, but I – it’s not like I was thinking that, and it just came out. Richie got in my head, and riled me up, and you were just – there. Doesn’t make it fair, I know, but I probably would have taken it out on anyone else who was there. Richie and I are good, now, after he came to apologise, but I just – I wish we hadn’t had that argument.”

Mike looks at him, almost frustrated, and shakes his head. “I – appreciate that, but…I don’t agree. I wish you hadn’t argued with him either, but I think –” he pauses, uncomfortably. “I think that – whether you meant it or not – you meant to say it to me, not Bill, or Bev or someone else. I don’t mean to make you feel worse, you know I forgive you, but it – it didn’t come from nowhere, is all.”

Stan pauses, temporarily speechless with shame and regret. He takes a breath. “You’re…right. As usual,” he starts, shakily. Mike watches him with anxious, but definite interest. He tries to steady his speech. “It’s not really about him. He just pulled on a thread that I’ve been afraid to look at.”

He runs a hand through his hair anxiously, looking down. His heart is speeding up again. He looks at Mike, ashamedly. “I’ve never been _great _at admitting I’ve fucked up. I’ve worked on it, but when we were – kids, especially – I wasn’t great at that, or explaining how I felt. It was always complicated when it came to you.”

Mike looks at him, strangely. “You definitely got better at it,” he says, with that same almost-smile.

“Thanks,” Stan says, slowly, watching him. “I’ve been feeling…guilty, lately. Over a lot of things, I’m sure you remember,” he says, with a vague, dark attempt at something like humour. He doesn’t really smile, though. “And I could talk about a lot of them with you, but there was – one thing – I definitely couldn’t. I couldn’t even think about it too much. I forgot how much I liked just being around you, how nice it was to have you there for me. It’s so _weird, _being back here and so much is different, but so much with all of us feels like it always was. I think that’s made it easier and harder being around you – and that complicates things for me. And I was coming back here to just hole up, and go through the house, and it was supposed to be simple and it really hasn’t been…I guess I couldn’t deal with – us, or whatever’s there, or was there – it was too complicated. I freaked out. But I’m so sorry, Mike, that I could’ve ever accused you of trying to use me when I’m vulnerable. That was really cruel, and I hope you know that I didn’t mean it for a second.”

Mike watches him, looking deeply conflicted. “I guess, yeah, I do.”

There’s a beat. Stan isn’t convinced. He feels that kind of desperation again, and tries not to show it, but he feels sort of hopeless. “Can you just –” he starts, and Mike looks no less conflicted.

“What?”

Stan stares back at him, wishing he knew how to explain himself better. “Can you just tell me how you’re actually feeling? You don’t have to be nice to me, you can tell me you never want to fucking…see me again, if you want. I just – I want to hear how you honestly feel. Or what you…think.”

Mike stares at him, tired and sad. He hesitates, then opens his mouth. “I think…I don’t know what to think about us, Stan. If there is an us. Either there isn’t, and I’ve been imagining there’s something still there, and that’s so pathetic I can’t even - _look_ at you, or there is…and you deliberately made me feel like I was crazy for thinking it. Even if you didn’t mean it. Both options really…suck.” 

Mike is right of course, and it makes him feel like he’s been stabbed. Along with accusing him of opportunistically moving in on him in a time of grief, he’d pretty much pretended that he didn’t feel anything for Mike anymore. He’d felt pretty awful about doing it, but it must have been so much worse to experience out of the blue.

“Mike,” he starts, before his voice dies. “Maybe it’s not enough, but I really am – _so sorry _that I did that to you,” he tries, again, voice wobbling on _sorry. _“I know I fucked up, and I was an asshole, but I promise – I swear to _God _it wasn’t like…I know I acted like I didn’t feel something between us, and I did that sober, but I didn’t…do that deliberately, if that makes any sense?”

Mike looks sad, and vaguely sceptical, but he doesn’t interrupt.

Stan sighs miserably, looking at Mike. “I know it’s not fair, I just – I couldn’t admit it, in that moment, that I still…that there’s still _something, _with you. I couldn’t cope. I haven’t been coping well with much, lately – ” his voice breaks. There’s a flash of anxious sympathy in Mike’s expression. “But I swear, if I could take it back I would. I regret it –“ he says, and his voice hitches. “I regret hurting you, so much. You’re one of my favourite people in the world.”

Mike’s eyes are tearing up, and he smiles a little at Stan. “Same goes for you.” He pauses. “Ok. I believe you. And I…think I can forgive you. I mean, you have been going through a lot. Can we just put it behind us, now?”

Stan smiles, swelling with unexpected happiness. Somehow he hadn’t quite believed Mike would forgive him – not because Mike would do that, but because what he did was so hurtful. “Please,” he says, quickly.

Mike smiles, not quite up to his normal wattage. “Good, because I hate fighting with my friends. It really – sucks, man.”

He smiles, and nods, but he suddenly feels like his good mood is rapidly sinking. “Oh, right,” he says, half-smiling, thinking. “Mike, I really want to be your friend. If you still want to be mine. I don’t want to –” he stumbles and pauses. “I _can’t _lose you again, man, especially not after we’ve…stuck it out for so long. I know we’ve rarely been in the same place, but I – I _hated _being in a world where we didn’t talk, Mike.” He takes a shaking breath. “You’ve been saving me since I called you, and I don’t even know how to thank you.” He sniffs, blinking. 

Mike wipes his eyes, and shakes his head. “Stan, you don’t have to _thank me_…It’s just what you do for the people you care about.” He looks at Stan funny and tears start rolling down his cheeks again. “I should’ve been there for you. I’m the one who should be apologising.”

Stan can feel himself crying too, his eyes hot. “Stop it, alright, you’re not to blame,” he says, seriously. He takes off his glasses and wipes his eyes with his hand.

Mike doesn’t look convinced, and this spurs him into an annoyed kind of action. It’s not even that he’s annoyed at Mike. He’s annoyed at the situation, at the whole mess. Indignant, even. Which is what spurs him to cross the room and throw his arms around Mike.

Mike had come a little forward from the oven, so it wasn’t the biggest jump, but he still noticed Mike’s eyes widening before he couldn’t see them anymore.

Mike hesitates, then wraps his arms around Stan warmly. He might be crying a little into Mike’s shirt, and Mike might be crying a little into his, but it’s not like anyone else is around. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Mike whispers. 

Stan pulls back a little to look at him, blinking tears away, bringing his arm up almost unconsciously to rest on the back of Mike’s neck. “It wasn’t your fault that we – fell out of touch, ok?” he says, fiercely. “I need you to know that. You couldn’t have – stopped me, Mike.” 

Mike looks at him, eyes big with regret and care. “You don’t know what it was like to get that call, Stan. I was devastated, and so, _so_ relieved, and I couldn’t _tell _anyone. Let alone you, after you’d been brave enough to call me.”

Stan looks back at him, feeling guilty, but also deeply grateful - even just for Mike’s continued presence in his life. “You, uh, hid it well. You were so supportive, I couldn’t have –” his voice catches, and he pauses a moment. “I couldn’t have borne coming back here if you hadn’t been here, Mike.” His voice wobbles on the end, threatening to break entirely. He’s really trying to keep it together, but it’s touch and go at this point.

Mike looks at him. “I wanted to be there for you. I didn’t want you to have to –” he says, and his voice dies. He looks away and back. “I almost lost _you_, Stan. I can’t even _imagine_ how I’d –” he says, and breaks off, crying. Stan’s stomach drops guiltily, and he pulls Mike into another hug, holding him against his chest and shoulder.

Mike lets up after a while, but doesn’t move far. Stan’s still holding the back of his neck, gently. He probably should let go, move back, but he doesn’t. Neither does Mike.

“I’m still here. I’m here now,” he half-whispers. He doesn’t need to talk very loud at this distance.

“You’re here now,” Mike says, almost repeating him. His eyes flick down to Stan’s lips. Stan’s heart is hammering so much he’s starting to understand how a hummingbird feels.

Mike looks at him for a long moment, and moves his face closer. Stan is drawn forward by this, like a puppet. Like he’s not even in control, it’s just instinct.

He can hear Mike breathing shallowly. He strokes his hand against the back of his neck, lightly, and feels Mike shiver, leaning into the touch. Mike sighs, closing his eyes.

When he opens them, he looks at Stan desperately. Sadly, too.

It feels like a long time that they’re standing there, inches from each other. Picking up where they’d left off the other day, but more intensely charged with emotion. One of them could just – _do it. _Make the move. But they stay like this, instead.

Stan moves his hand slowly from Mike’s neck to stroke his cheek. Mike leans into it, but he looks – anxious.

“What?” Stan whispers.

Mike looks at him for another long moment, so charged that Stan’s almost certain that he’s about to – then he pulls away. The sudden loss of closeness is like a gunshot, leaving Stan reeling.

Mike looks at him sadly, shaking his head. “I can’t. I can’t do this.”

“What?” Stan repeats, more shocked this time.

“No, I’m sorry,” he says, voice shaking a bit. He rubs a hand uncomfortably through his hair, looking devastated. “I shouldn’t have done that, I’m sorry. I can’t – _do _this –“

“Why not?” Stan asks, quietly, hurt now. Feeling the beginnings of some indignant anger.

Mike looks deeply regretful. “Because I just – I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re still in love with your wife, Stan. That’s why you freaked out at me before. Because you still feel loyal to her, and you’ll just end up feeling guilty about anything we do.”

Stan had once read about a ritual Viking method of killing called the “Blood Eagle” where the victim’s lungs were pulled backwards through their severed ribcage to sit on their back like ‘wings’. He can suddenly sympathise. “That’s so – “ he bursts out. “Yeah, it’s complicated, but I…I’m not saying I didn’t freak out because of that, but this isn’t –” he tries to continue, unable to properly express his thoughts. “And I thought you’d forgiven that, or didn’t that mean anything?”

“No, I meant that! I’m not mad at you – I just – I can’t do this, Stan. Please,” Mike says, exasperated.

His mind wanders to last night, and he feels a hot burst of humiliation in his stomach. “Is it because you’re in love with Bill? Is this what you said to him last night?”

Mike looks floored. “What?” he asks. “How do you – “

Stan looks at him, hurt and angry. “I tried to apologise last night as well, but you were kind of busy.”

Mike looks taken aback, and then surprisingly irritated. “Well, if I was looking for comfort elsewhere, after yesterday, I hardly think you can blame me. Especially when you made it pretty clear that I was never going to be with you!”

Hurt and guilt are racing around the pit of his stomach. Mike is right, obviously, but Stan is still smarting over whatever just happened. No confusion this time, _something _was about to happen, which is obviously why Mike freaked.

“Well, I guess it wasn’t Richie at all then. This would’ve always happened!” he says, angrily.

“Guess it would’ve!” Mike fires back.

There’s an intensely painful silence. Stan doesn’t know why he’s not leaving. Maybe he’s waiting for Mike to kick him out.

Mike takes a breath, and rubs his eyes. When he opens them again, he looks less furious. “I’m sorry you saw that…but I’m not in love with Bill, ok? I had some kind of childhood crush on him once, and I was devastated, and drunk. He was just conveniently close.”

Stan breathes heavily, again regretting getting mad. “I guess I get that. I think a lot of us had that crush,” he says, trying to extend the olive branch.

Silence, but less painful. Mike nods.

“So that’s not why?” he asks, carefully after a few moments.

Mike looks at him, conflicted and sad. “No, that’s not why. There’s only one of the losers I’ve ever been _in love _with.”

This pierces his heart unexpectedly. It’s not like he didn’t know it. But he’d forgotten what it sounded like, coming from Mike.

Mike sighs again, deep and long-suffering. “It’s not the same but – I guess it’s similar to the reason I couldn’t just drunkenly give in with Bill. I don’t – want to just be the person that you choose because you can’t be with her. I care about you too fucking _much _to be a consolation –” he breaks off, upset, and takes a few seconds. “It would _destroy _me, Stan.”

Stan sniffs, staring at him. He tries to talk several times and can’t manage to produce sound. Finally, he manages to say, “It’s different though – you and her. It’s hard to…explain, but I –” he wavers, heart pounding. “But I – I love you both separately. You’re different parts of my life. You’re not – less, next to my memories of her.”

Mike’s eyes widen, and he stares at Stan for several seconds before Stan realises what’s slipped out. “Oh…” Stan says, awkwardly. Then he shakes his head, and looks at Mike fiercely. “Actually no, I don’t regret that. Even though it’s the most fucking awkward time I could’ve said that, and maybe I didn’t let myself even _think _that until I just said it,” he says, and gulps. “But I love you. I think I’m –”

Mike stops him this time. “Stan, _please. _You think that I don’t –” he says, and can’t say it. He looks miserable. “I just think...you’re also coping with a lot right now. Your parents, Patty, what happened. You’re back here, and it’s weird, and you’re reaching out for something comforting and familiar, and that’s not a terrible thing, but I can’t –” he stops, voice dying again. He gulps, like he’s been underwater and he’s just breaching the surface. “Don’t say something you can’t take back. _Please_.”

“Why would I take it back?” he says, almost pleading.

Mike looks at him, wretched. “You know why, Stan,” he says, eyes watering. “C’mon, it’s not like she’s gone. Not really. And even if her being overseas means she is – you were in love with her for _twenty years._ That’s twenty years of a loving marriage, with a woman! And you only broke up a year ago. Reviving _this _–” he gestures vaguely at them both, “ – no matter how much I might _want_ –” He shakes his head. “It’s not a good idea. Maybe for either of us. There’s too much baggage.”

Stan stares at him, dejected and regretful. Something Mike had said yesterday, during the fight, comes back to him. _I was your best man, God, Stan. Do you have any idea?_

He finds his voice after a moment, and swallows once. “I shouldn’t have made you my best man. That wasn’t fair to you.”

Mike looks taken aback. “No, I was – I was happy to do it, man. I just wanted you to be – happy,” he says, voice shaking on the last words.

Stan gives him a sad, affectionate look. “I took advantage of that. Not deliberately, but, still. I could’ve asked someone else, but I had excuses for everyone that came. Part of me just wanted your support –” he says, suddenly feeling winded. “I never meant to be _cruel_, I swear to you, but I think about how I would’ve felt if I’d been the single one and you’d been the one marrying someone you were crazy about. I would’ve done it, and I would’ve been happy for you, but a part of me would’ve been dying watching you ride off into some happy ending without me.”

Mike makes a noise like he’s trying to talk, and then goes silent. He looks totally wrecked, not even denying it. “Why’d you do it, then?” he manages, after a few seconds, in a very small voice.

“Honestly?” Stan asks, heart in his throat. “I don’t really regret it, but I fucked up, trying to stay your friend. I didn’t give you the time you needed to heal, maybe. And we never talked about it again – it was like –“ his throat tightens evermore painfully. “All the intensity, all of the intimacy, all the goddamn _love _and _secrecy_ of those weeks, and we sort of just started pretending like it had never happened. I’m not blaming either of us, we did what we had to do to salvage our friendship. But I think I started to forget, too, like that summer was just a dream that I had. So when it came to asking you to be in my wedding, it was only because you were so important to me – in a way that I didn’t, or couldn’t admit to myself. I _am _so sorry that I hurt you, without thinking.” 

Mike nods, sniffling. “Thanks, Stan. That means – that really means a lot. But all that was my fault too, I think. I just – couldn’t bear to totally lose you, after all of it. I would’ve lost my mind.”

Stan sniffles, too. “God, me too. It wasn’t long enough.”

Mike looks at him wistfully. “It wasn’t. But, I guess there’s a silver lining: if it had been longer you might never have met the love of your life.”

“I don’t regret that bit,” Stan says, honestly. “Even how it ended. I’m grateful we had as long as we did.” He looks away and back at Mike. “I had two though, alright.”

“Two?” Mike asks, uncertain.

“Loves. Of my life,” Stan replies, and even though his throat is tight and his eyelids are sore from all the crying he’s been doing recently, it feels like something heavy’s passed out of his stomach, one big rock off the pile.

Mike closes his eyes, and for a moment he seems like he’s crumbling. But he pulls it together. Standing in front of him, having this conversation, is just a prolonged painful experience. Death by a thousand cuts every time he looks at Mike’s tired, devastated face.

“Don’t,” Mike says, weakly. “It’s not the same thing, Stan. A few weeks when we were eighteen? It’s not anything next to a decades-long adult relationship.”

“It’s not the same thing, you’re right,” Stan says, quietly, steady but feeling quite desperate all of a sudden. “I don’t want to compare you. But you changed my life, Mike. If I hadn’t known what it felt like to be in a relationship when it’s completely _right_, I wouldn’t have been able to recognise it when I next had it. You have to – stop thinking you’re not _devastatingly _important to me, even more than everyone else – and you know that I would take a fucking _bullet _for literally every one of them.” He attempts a half-smile. “Even Richie.”

Mike almost smiles too. “Especially Richie, come on man.”

He nods. “Yeah, but don’t tell him. I have a rep to uphold.”

Mike smiles, just a little.

Stan is reminded of something then, and it hits him like a truck. He feels around in his jeans pocket, and his hand closes on it. He’d grabbed it just before he’d left. His heart is getting back up to hummingbird-at-rest levels, two hundred beats per minute. “Actually, part of what made me so mad at Richie yesterday was that he found something of mine, and it wasn’t his right to read it, but he did anyway. That’s how he knew about our history.”

Mike looks curious. “You never said what you fought about, other than he got in your head, but I figured it might have been about that,” he says slowly. “I sort of assumed he’d seen us secretly back then, and was just bringing it up now to be an asshole.”

Stan shakes his head. “He didn’t know until he read it. I think that’s part of why he was so mad at me. He was mad I didn’t tell him.”

“I guess I can understand that,” Mike says, thoughtfully. “How are things with him now?”

Stan smiles a little, not expecting the question. This is why. Because Mike seems ever more-curious to know what Stan’s referring, but he still is asking if he and Richie are ok. “Good. We had a big talk. He actually helped me be brave enough to come talk to you.”

“I’ll have to thank him the next time I see him,” Mike says, with a small smile. He holds Stan’s gaze, and he’s definitely curious. “So what was it that he read?”

It sends a jolt down Stan’s spine, even though he’s the one who brought it up. “Something I never sent you,” he says, heart in his mouth. “In college. It’s about twenty-one years late, but it’s yours. You deserve to read it.”

Mike looks completely caught off-guard. His mouth falls open slightly as Stan pulls the letter out, and hands it to him. Stan’s hand shakes a little as he does.

Mike looks at him for a moment, and then looks down to the letter, pulling it out of the already-opened envelope.

Stan watches him read it, heartbeat now probably going at a hummingbird-in-flight rate, one thousand and two hundred beats per minute. He watches a lot of different emotions play out on Mike’s face: surprise, humour, sadness, and an overwhelming something that’s deep and emotional and _affection _probably doesn’t cover.

He looks up at Stan, still gripping the letter tightly. “So this would’ve been…halfway through freshman year, I guess?” he says, with some suppressed emotion.

Stan nods.

Mike looks at him, pained. “Why didn’t you send it?”

Stan blinks. Any minute now, he’s gonna start crying for real, again, and that’s not gonna be attractive. “I _wanted_ to. As you can tell, I was – coming apart – without you, Mike,” he says, and his voice catches. “But when I was deliberating over whether or not to send it – it was a _big _swing, I felt, and it was scary - you wrote to me, and you’d just met this girl and I could tell you were just…head over heels for her. I didn’t want to do that to you. A girlfriend you could be with beat a boyfriend two states away.”

Mike gulps. “Oh,” he says, slowly.

“I wouldn’t have quoted the Melville-Hawthorn love letters for just anyone,” Stan says, trying to smile. It feels like he’s about to burst with emotion, though. He stares at Mike, desperate. “You’re not a consolation prize, Mike. I’m in –” he says, and doesn’t finish because Mike’s crossed the space between them surprisingly quickly and taken his face in his hands to kiss him.

It’s a good kiss. It’s a really good kiss. They separate, breathing heavily. “I’m sorry if that was the wrong –” Mike starts.

Stan half-laughs, feels his eyes overflowing with hot tears. “Are you kidding? I think I’ve been dying for you to do that since I first saw you again.”

Mike grins, puts his thumb up to Stan’s cheek to brush his tears away. “Please don’t cry.”

He sniffles, and half-laughs. “I’m ok. But will you let me say it?”

“Say what?” Mike asks.

“I think – no, I know – now – I’m in love with you. Not accidentally,” he says, and Mike’s expression goes wonderfully soft. He takes Mike’s face in his hands. “On purpose. I love you on purpose, Mike Hanlon, because it’s _you _I want.”

Mike sighs, like he can’t believe what’s even happening. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Stan, like he’s afraid he might disappear. “God, I’m so in love with you. I didn’t think it would come back like this,” he says in a near-whisper.

“Me neither,” Stan whispers back. “But I’m glad it did,” he says, and pulls Mike into another kiss.

Foreheads still touching, only separated enough so they can breathe in, Stan has an idea. “Do you want to dance?” he says, in between smiling little kisses.

“What?” Mike says, laughing softly.

“Would you like to dance with me? Here?” he says, and pulls away a little to get his phone out of his pocket.

Mike makes a noise at the loss, but smiles at him. “Alright.”

Stan goes straight to Spotify, searches, and finds the track almost immediately, and reaches out to put the phone on the kitchen island. Mike laughs again. It feels something like – when you’ve been out in the cold, and you’ve had to walk home, and it’s snowing and you’re freezing and you’re annoyed at your parents because they didn’t pick you up, but then you get home and you step into the shower, and it’s like you forget every bad thing that happened to you that day, because the you’re suddenly warm and safe.

“Oh shit, I haven’t heard this in years…” Mike says, like he physically can’t stop smiling or looking at him. He raises an eyebrow. “Prom night part two?”

Stan grins. “Maybe. Hurry up and dance with me.”

Mike beams and reaches out to wrap his hands around Stan’s waist, and Stan puts his arms around Mike’s shoulders, and they sway slowly together.

_Fade into you, _goes Stan’s phone speakers. _Faaade into you. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooooooh boy this was a big one, i'm pretty proud it's only 21k (which is usually NUTS but considering everything that happens, 21k is pretty good!) 
> 
> We're getting very close to the end now, as I'm sure you can tell! I'm sad that I won't get to write it anymore, but I'm excited to get the ending out! Hope you enjoyed finally seeing everyone all soft and happy with each other, love to know your thoughts, comments make my day :D


	11. Don't You Forget About Me (It's My Feeling We'll Win In The End)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while getting this together, huh? if you're still here, thanks, and i hope you enjoy this penultimate chapter - I hope you're keeping well and safe, wherever you are, and if this takes your mind off things for a moment I'm glad :)

“You know we’re gonna have to leave this room at some point?”

“No. Let’s stay here.”

Bill chuckles softly, looking at Audra across the pillow. 

She looks back, attempting an unimpressed look and landing on fond. “Forever and ever? In a hotel like this? No thanks, I think you’d go stir crazy.”

He chuckles again, slightly more indignantly. “Wow, thanks.”

She laughs. “I say it out of love. And because I’m not staying in an old, mostly-empty hotel in small town Maine forever.”

“Fine, fine, we’ll _leave _at some point,” Bill says, with an exaggerated sigh. “But first,” he says, and leans across to kiss her.

He has to restrain himself from saying things like _how could I have taken you for granted for so long? How did I lose sight of you so badly? _It wouldn’t make her feel good to hear them, but it’s true, he doesn’t understand. He looks at her and he’s so full of love, it seems impossible that he forgot how this felt.

She looks back at him, open and warm. “Are you going to let me meet your friends?”

He smiles, and realises he feels excited about it. “Of course! We’ve got _big_ news, they need to know.” He pauses. “That is, if you wanna tell them. I know it’s early.”

She lights up. “Really? You wanna tell them?”

He beams. “Baby, of course! They’ll be thrilled, trust me.”

***

Richie’s not sure when his life became the ending of a romcom, but strangely, he doesn’t hate it. Granted, they are pretty pathetic excuses for the typical kind of leads of those things, less Hugh and Julia and more a goofy, glasses-wearing beanpole and a swarm of bees that looks really good in a polo shirt – but he likes that too.

It’s not even lunchtime but it feels later, maybe because of this morning’s seismic shift. It’s so weird that he could have woken up in the Before Times, a time when Eddie and he weren’t even friends anymore – and now he’s here, with Eddie sitting in the car out at the Barrens, eating messy diner food together. In the After Times, the time he’s now in, where Eddie’s in love with him. Where Eddie knows how he feels about him and returns the feeling. It feels like an alternate universe. Adding to this, Eddie is barely freaking out about eating and drinking in a car that he’s rented.

“What?” Eddie says, annoyed but not really. He’s still smiling. Eddie hasn’t stopped, really. If they’re not counting the times Richie’s made bad jokes. But how can he not? He’s in _such _a good fucking mood.

“What?” Richie echoes, innocently.

“You’re being very quiet, it’s unnatural,” Eddie says, popping a fry into his mouth.

“Maybe I’m just thinking, can’t a man just think in peace without being accused of unnatural things?” Richie teases.

Eddie shakes his head. “_You_ absolutely can’t. You’ve never had a thought you didn’t let come out of your mouth immediately, no matter how malformed it is.”

Richie grins. “I beg to differ, darling.”

Eddie blushes and it’s spectacular. Richie can’t believe his luck, everytime he looks at him. “Ok, fair,” he says, smiling sheepishly. He pauses, momentarily looking worried. “What is it, though? Are you ok?”

Richie smiles at him, even wider. “I am more than ok, Eds. I’m on cloud fuckin’ nine.”

Eddie’s smile returns in full. “Good,” he says, matter-of-factly, and takes a sip of his coffee.

Richie thinks. “I guess I’m just… enjoying the moment. That sounds dumb. I’m not going to start wearing crystals and talking about reiki healing, I just – I want to enjoy being here with you. Regardless of whatever shit we have to deal with soon, we can just have a good time together for now.”

Eddie looks at him, strange and soft, and doesn’t say anything for a few moments. “Yeah,” he says finally, softly.

He’s quiet for a moment. “I know what you just said, and I agree, but…do you know what you’re going to do after we leave? When you get back to L.A?”

Richie shrugs, considering it as he takes a sip of his soda. He’d forgone another coffee. Eddie had complained about the high sugar content in soda, and he’d loved it. He grins, a bit devil-may-care. “Salvage what’s left of my career?” he laughs.

“What do you mean?” Eddie asks. “I know you missed some tour dates, but surely you can make that up?”

He looks at Eddie, and sighs. “I didn’t tell you about my last gig before I left, did I?”

Eddie looks concerned. “No, I don’t think so …”

He shakes his head and chuckles, ruefully. “Literally minutes before I had to go on, Mike called me. Told me what happened. I told you before – I threw up. I was like, shaking. Hadn’t seen Stan in _years_, and it just – hit me real hard, isn’t that fucked up?” He chuckles, but it’s weak. “So, I had a drink and tried to go on and do my set, and I just…couldn’t remember it. I basically ran out on it, and I knew, even before I went on, that I had somewhere more important to be. I’ve deliberately not been checking my Google alerts, but I can tell you, they won’t look good. My manager Steve has been texting and calling about when I’ll be back. If I’ll be back. If there’ll be a career for me when I get back.”

Eddie’s face clouds with deeper concern. “Oh. Shit,” he says, simply.

Richie grins. “Yeah. Shit.” Somehow he feels cheered by this.

Eddie looks at him. “Do you like it?”

Richie looks back, surprised. He hasn’t been asked _that _in a while. “Uh, comedy? Yeah, of course. And I like doing stand up…” he trails off, thinking about it. “No, honestly, I don’t give a shit about what I’m doing right now. Like, I would like to still be working, but you’ve seen my stuff. It’s not exactly high-level comedy,” he says derisively, looking away.

“No,” Eddie says, honestly. “I’m sorry for what I said about it though. That was shitty.”

Richie chuckles, and smiles at him. “You were right though. I – I don’t write my own shit. And it is shit. But I guess I can’t judge my ghost writers because I haven’t written _actual jokes _from my _actual mind _in like, years. I don’t even know if I could.”

Eddie looks at him. “I think you could.” He pauses. “I don’t know much about your industry, Rich. Maybe this is an opportunity, though? Find out what you _actually _want to talk about. If you’re not happy with what you’re doing.”

Richie stares at him, and his heart bursts with love. “I’m sorry, you say something like that and I actually have to kiss you again. Legally, I have to.”

Eddie smiles, surprised, and shrinks back slightly. “I’m all burger-y now though!”

Richie grins, leaning toward him. “Don’t care, so am I. I have to kiss you right now or I’ll die.”

“Gross.” Eddie smiles more, and leans forward. “Well. You know how much I worry about your health.”

Richie grins and kisses him over the separator, somehow managing not to knock over any of their food.

***

“We should probably stop doing this in the middle of the lobby?” Ben says half-heartedly, smiling as he pulls a little away from Bev.

Bev just moves forward into the space, smiling giddily. “Or we could keep kissing?”

Ben finds that it’s almost too hard to look at her and form a coherent thought. “You, uh, make a good point.”

“I’m pretty persuasive,” she says, smiling as she kisses him again.

They might have continued that way for a while were they not interrupted by a loud whoop.

“Benjamin!”

They break apart, and he feels himself blushing. “Uh, hi, Rich.”

Richie looks surprised, but he’s grinning from ear-to-ear. He looks between them. “Beverly!”

She grins back at him. “Richie.”

Eddie’s come in with him, and he’s grinning at them too. He looks – there’s something different about him. He doesn’t just look _happy, _it’s more than that.

“Look at you two, making out like a couple of teenagers! In public! You’d never see _me_ doing that!” Richie says, holding a hand to his chest in fake shock.

Eddie’s eyes flick to him and his smile is distinctly smirk-like.

Bev looks between the two of them. “Wait. You guys made up?”

“You could say that.” Richie is _definitely _smirking.

Ben smiles at him. “Rich! I’m so glad!”

“You’re being weird,” Bev says, suspiciously.

“_You’re _being weird,” Richie replies quickly. He looks at Ben. “Also, I’m sorry I left you alone in the wilds of Hampden last night. I had some apologies to make.”

Ben shakes his head, smiling. “No, you helped me. I needed the time to think.” He smiles at Bev. “Might have been a bit awkward, if I’d gotten back earlier. Although I guess we would’ve all been embarrassingly drunk together.”

“Oh my god,” Bev says, laughing and meeting Eddie’s eyes.

Eddie immediately goes pink. “Oh my god.”

Richie’s smirk widens, noticing with evident glee. “Why are you embarrassed? What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Eddie says, too quickly and Bev giggles.

Ben looks at her. “OK, now I want to know, too.”

“Thank you, Benjamin!” Richie crows. “You have to tell us now.”

Bev shrugs at Eddie. “He’s making it seem worse than it was,” she says, grinning.

“Alright, fine,” Eddie says, resigned.

She laughs. “It’s not a big deal, we just bumped into someone checking in last night, and you might know of her…”

“Know _of _her?” Richie starts. “Like, not someone from around here that we would know personally? Who’s someone we’d know _of,_ but we don’t know? Especially someone who’d be checking into this dump?”

“Richie!” Eddie scolds.

“What?” Richie says, grinning. “No-one’s here. Was it…Kim Kardashian?” he jokes.

Bev gives him a look. “Yeah she wanted a first-hand look at the natural splendour of small-town Maine,” she deadpans. “Use your few remaining brain cells, Rich.”

Richie cackles. “Harsh, but fair.” He thinks and then something seems to dawn on him. “Oh _no way… _Audra?”

Bev nods. “In the flesh.” 

Richie’s quiet for a moment. “Wait, I think I already knew that. Stan said something about Bill and his wife, but I was too busy trying to get details out of him about what he was going to – well, it’s not related.”

Bev raises her eyebrows at him. “Interesting.”

Richie looks at her and raises an eyebrow back, but doesn’t say anything. Ben wonders what it is they know. He’s starting to get the feeling there’s a lot he doesn’t.

Richie looks between her and Eddie. “Wait, so you met her last night…when you were drunk?”

“Very much so,” Bev says, and Eddie groans.

Richie laughs, and looks at Eddie. “Go on, Eds, what did you do?”

“It was sweet! She said it was nice to meet a fan!” Bev says, clearly trying not to giggle and all but failing.

“It was embarrassing, and loud, and I can never talk to her again. Which will be hard considering she’s married to one of our friends,” Eddie says, going redder.

“Hey, at least you weren’t alone in embarrassing yourself. It wasn’t _that _bad, anyway, she was very nice,” Bev says comfortingly, grinning.

“Yeah, I’m sure she won’t remember it forever, that one time she had to go out to middle-of-fuckall-nowhere, Maine, and was accosted by a drunk fan – ” Richie says, also grinning.

“I truly hate you so much,” Eddie says, blushing furiously. Still, he can’t stop himself from smiling at Richie in a way that feels very familiar to Ben.

“I truly think you don’t,” Richie says back snarkily, and there it is again, the softness and affection with which he’s looking at Eddie.

Ben looks at Bev and she raises her eyebrows at him in an _are you thinking what I’m thinking _kind of way.

“So,” she says, casually. “I guess you know our news now. What’s new with you?”

Richie’s eyes flicker to Eddie, and Ben catches a flash of worry in his expression. He wonders about it.

Eddie shares a split-second of worry with Richie, and then smiles, cheeks still red. He looks at them, anxious lines appearing on his forehead again, before he takes a breath. “I guess we’ve got some news of our own.” He takes Richie’s hand, and Ben notices Richie’s eyes widen slightly. “I’m, uhm…I’m in love with Richie. And I’m going to be with him.”

Ben meets Richie’s eyes for a moment, and he looks happier, more elated, than Ben’s ever seen him. He supposes he’s giving Richie the same look, beaming at him, because Richie’s beaming back at him. Neither of them have to say it, it’d be embarrassing to say out loud right now anyway, but – there’s a triumph in the look they’re sharing right now, _we did it, against the odds these people are in love with us, it only took us twenty years or so to tell them. _

Bev cheers, clearly thrilled. “Oh my god, that’s amazing!”

“Yeah, guys, wow! That’s huge!” Ben says, happily. “Congratulations!”

“I’m so happy for you guys, really,” Bev adds, beaming.

“You wouldn’t be crying right now, would you, Marsh?” Richie teases.

She sniffs. “No, fuck off. Come hug me, both of you!”

Richie laughs. They both move forward to hug her.

“You too, Haystack, you’re not getting out of this!” Richie says, and Bev beckons him over. 

His face is actually starting to hurt from smiling so much, but he can’t stop. He joins them.

When they finally let go, Eddie looks at them like something’s just occurred to him. “You weren’t surprised at all?”

“Uh,” Ben starts, not expecting that.

“Well,” Bev tries, looking at Ben.

Richie throws an arm around Eddie – something he’s done many times in the past, but it’s different somehow, now that he doesn’t have to put some kind of exaggerated mateship into it – and says, “No one was surprised about me, Eds, and I think we can all agree that before I told you I was the straightest-acting person you’ve ever known.” He smirks at Eddie. “We all know each other too well, unfortunately.”

Eddie shakes his head, and gets out, “You’re such a _fucking idiot _– ” before he breaks, laughing so hard he’s crying, and then everyone joins in.

“Well, you’re in love with me, so maybe I’m not the only idiot here,” Richie retorts, laughing.

“Shut the fuck up, Richie,” Eddie says fondly, still laughing.

Ben looks at Bev, radiating happiness and laughing with their friends, and thinks he couldn’t be any happier.

***

Mike studies Stan’s face, his eyes closed, and his head resting on the same pillow he had slept on on Friday night. Which feels like it was weeks ago now. This weekend has been insanely long and emotional, it doesn’t feel like it’s only been two and half days.

Stan’s face is lined in sleep – it makes him look older than he is. He’s been through so much. Mike would carry it for him, if he could. But he can help hold it. He can do that much at least.

He can’t believe that he gets to look at him like this now. He’d almost forgotten what it feels like – not just with Stan, but with anyone. With someone you’re in love with. Someone being comfortable enough to fall asleep next to you. Lying next to them, and being able to look at them. It’s so vulnerable, and intimate.

“Stop staring at me,” Stan mumbles, not opening his eyes.

Mike chuckles, caught out. “I’m not staring at you,” he lies, grinning.

“You think I can’t tell? Your gaze is burning into my skin right now,” Stan grumbles.

“I can’t help it,” Mike says, honestly. “I have too much love for you, it leaks out of my eyes when I’m looking at you.”

Stan’s eyes flutter open. Mike focuses on his eyelashes. He remembers doing that a long time ago. It’s funny, the things that come back to you.

Stan looks at him strangely, not smiling exactly, but not mad. More…intense. “God, Mike, how am I supposed to cope when you say things like that? How am I ever supposed to stop kissing you?”

Mike smiles. “Please don’t.”

“Alright,” Stan says, and pulls him closer. He kisses him, slow and lazy.

“You have a good nap?” Mike says, smiling softly. 

Stan smiles back, relaxed and calm in a way he hasn’t been since he arrived in Derry, even when he’s been having a good time with everyone else. “Yeah. Might have been the best rest I’ve had in over a year,” he says quietly.

Mike reaches out to stroke his face, and Stan nestles into his touch, catlike. “Glad to hear it.”

Stan looks at him for a moment.

“Now who’s staring?” Mike teases.

A slow grin spreads out on Stan’s face. “Can’t help it. You’re too hot. Did you age at all in the last decade?”

Mike scoffs, propping himself on one arm. “Now, I _know _you’re just being nice. I’ve worked with teenagers five days a week for the last sixteen years, Stan, I feel like I look seventy next to you all.”

Stan laughs, reaching a lazy hand out to touch the arm closest to him. “These arms? Well you’re an extremely hot seventy, then.”

Mike laughs. “Didn’t think you were into that.”

Stan laughs again, and Mike knows he’s going to spend the rest of his life trying to get that sound out of him as much as possible. “Maybe we’re both two old men, then, but we do pretty well together.”

Mike laughs again. “We do, yeah.” He looks down at Stan with not entirely pure eyes. “So…you liked it then?”

His fingers drop down to Stan’s chest, walking across it slowly, lightly.

He watches Stan’s throat bob up and down as he swallows. “Uh, yeah. If the sound nap I just had wasn’t enough of an indication that I was satisfied…” Stan smirks.

Mike grins, biting his lip. “Good.”

Stan scoffs, “Like you don’t already know,” and pulls him down into another kiss.

Stan’s quiet for a while after the kiss. He looks at Mike, who doesn’t try to fill the silence. “You’re the first since…” he says quietly.

“I know,” Mike says simply.

Stan nods slowly. “It’s been a little over a year, you know. And I just lost it for a while, I just stopped caring. Another fun side effect of the old one-two punch of separation and clinical depression.”

Mike’s heart hurts. He can try, but he can’t kiss that better.

Stan reaches out to touch his face, and he feels warm at the points of contact. “Don’t look like that, I’m ok. I just wanted to…” he seems to search for the words. “Thank you, I guess.” Stan pauses, looking at him deeply. Looking for the right words, maybe. “For a long while my life was a black hole, and I only started feeling like there might be a light at the end of the tunnel when I started talking to you again. You saved me, Mikey”

Mike’s heart is full and bursting with emotion, and he can only express it by very gently taking hold of Stan’s still-bandaged arm and kissing his wrist. Stan’s eyes water, and his expression goes very soft and reverent.

“You don’t need to thank me. But I appreciate it.” He leans in to kiss Stan. “If anything, I should probably be thanking you. For saving _me_.”

Stan looks at him, shiny-eyed and speechless. Mike looks back, and doesn’t want him to cry. “For the sex, at the very least,” he deadpans.

Stan coughs out an unexpected laugh, blinking away tears. He smirks. “How long’s it been for you then?”

Mike smiles, sheepish. “I guess, nearly a year for me, too? Last Christmas break.”

Stan raises his eyebrows. “Who was it? Anyone I know?”

Mike feels suddenly embarrassed, even though he doesn’t really have a reason to be. It’s not embarrassing, exactly, except for the circumstances. He half-laughs, awkwardly, and Stan’s eyes widen. “It _was _someone I know! Or…someone I’ve met, at least.”

Stan’s brow furrows in thought. “Oh, hang _on_…I completely forgot because it happened the morning before we had our fight and everything went to hell for a while and it drove it out of my mind, but, I was going to remind you to tell me why you were so weird around that woman we met at the paint store! The other teacher? I’m right, aren’t I?” he says, smugly.

Mike laughs, surprised. “How the _fuck_ did you even…yes, you are, ok? Yes.”

Stan laughs, triumphantly. “Now you _have _to tell me what happened. Is that why you didn’t tell me earlier?”

Mike feels his cheeks warm, and looks at Stan sheepishly, grinning. “I just felt weird about telling _you_ about my sex life. Especially not right on the street there. _Especially _because then we ran into Sierra and Grace, and they would’ve _loved _to overhear that. God, even saying that gives me cold sweats.”

Stan sucks in a breath, still grinning. “Yeah, teens are merciless. Especially in a school that small.”

Mike nods. “You’re telling me.”

“So what happened?” Stan asks, watching him with a bemused, fond smile.

Mike laughs awkwardly again. “I believe I’ve mentioned that I got catastrophically drunk at the Christmas party last year?”

Stan chuckles. “I remember you saying so, yes.”

“Well, so did everyone. Teachers have a _lot_ of stress to relieve,” Mike continues, sheepishly. Stan raises his eyebrows. “Yeah. I walked her home, because we were way too drunk to drive, and then it just happened. And kept happening. For most of the winter break.”

Stan gasps, exaggeratedly loudly. “Wooow. Should I be worried she’s going to steal you back? She was quite pretty, if I remember correctly.”

Mike pokes at him, and Stan grins. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were being facetious.” Stan chuckles. Mike smiles at him. “No – I mean, she’s great, there may have been an…attempt, at a relationship…but we realised pretty quickly that we’re better as friends. Although it’s still a bit awkward, I guess. I don’t know. It’s not like we hate each other or anything.”

“Well, I wasn’t being facetious about her looks. That would be shitty,” Stan admits. “And if I had to work with you every day, and I knew what being with you was like…well, I can understand if she feels weird around you now.”

Mike feels his cheeks heating up. “_Gooood_. I really wasn’t trying to be an asshole. We just really didn’t want the same things. We’re not very similar people. And we decided maybe a relationship that starts from a drunk, holiday-time hookup isn’t the most stable thing?”

Stan laughs. “I’m sure she gets it, Mike. As long as she knows you’re taken now.” He looks at Mike with sudden, soft concern. “I mean, if you want to tell people, that is.”

Mike’s heart skips a beat then speeds up to compensate. When he finds his voice, he says, “Of course I do, Stan. I want to tell everyone I _meet _that I’m in love with you, it’s gonna be a struggle not to.”

Stan looks at him, speechless. His eyes are glistening. “You’d do that for me? In this shithole town?”

Mike looks at him, almost unable to speak himself. “I – if people around here are going to hate me for who I am, they probably already do. Knowing I’m in love with a man isn’t going to change that much. And fuck ‘em, honestly. I’ve haven’t let this town make me ashamed of myself for nearly forty years, I’m not intending to start now.”

Stan stares at him. “What did I say about making me want to kiss you?” he croaks out.

Mike smiles, and moves forward to kiss him. “Better?”

“Better,” Stan agrees.

Mike looks at him. “Don’t feel like you have to be cool with telling people, yet, though. I know this has been a lot already. I won’t pressure you.”

Stan smiles, and his eyes are shiny for a moment before he blinks it away. “And that’s why I love you. And this is a lot. But – ” he looks at Mike, seriously. “I’m going to do it right this time. Maybe I have to work up to telling other people – although honestly, I can’t think of many other people that need to know anything about my life – but I want to tell the others this time. Right away. As soon as possible. I’m not some scared kid anymore.”

Mike sniffs and blinks. “Fuck. You are just – you’re so – I love you. I’m so proud of you.”

Stan’s eyes are shining again. “Couldn’t do it without you, Mikey,” he says, softly, and leans in for another kiss. He settles himself on Mike’s chest and Mike wraps an arm around him protectively, looking up at the ceiling. His heart beats out a steady, contented rhythm. Remembering Friday night, his heart had been drunkenly hammering out of his chest, and Stan had been fully clothed, asleep, and much further away on the mattress. The first time they’d shared a bed in over twenty years.

“Can’t believe this is the second time we’ve slept together in three days,” Mike whispers, and Stan makes a confused noise and then starts laughing. Mike laughs too.

“I can’t believe you let me do that,” Stan whispers, half-choked by embarrassed laughter. “You should’ve have kicked me out and made me sleep on the floor. Or the bath.”

“I really should’ve. It was hell,” Mike replies, grinning. Stan laughs, mock-offended.

“Not because you kick in your sleep, or snore, or anything,” Mike says, chuckling. “It reminded me of just…lying next to you. Before. Not doing anything. Just hanging out, being close to each other. It was like being unexpectedly punched in the gut. And I couldn’t let you know.” 

“Oh,” Stan replies, softly. His head is a comforting weight on Mike’s chest, just above his heart.

_It’s a warm day, but thankfully not sticky-hot, the kind where you don’t want to be touching anything, let alone other people. _

_It’s the middle of summer, and it’s hard to worry about the future today, when the sky is a hazy blue with a few fat white clouds drifting across it, the sun shining, and you’re lying in the back of a truck on a some cushions and a blanket with a beautiful boy, and you’re in love. _

_They’ve driven the truck out to the Barrens, a little way away from the usual spot. It’s a risk, but they’ve gotten kind of reckless lately. Mike’s finished working at the diner, and he’s done his farm chores for the day, Stan’s told his parents he’s hanging out with Bill, and their friends think they’re busy with family stuff. It’s lot of people they’re lying to, but it doesn’t feel like it matters right now, while they’re lying here, looking up at the sky, noticing patterns in the clouds. _

_Stan is lying next to him, their fingers entwined. They don’t need to talk that much. Sometimes it’s just being near each other that’s enough. They pass a rolled joint back and forth, not taking that much in. _

_Half-asleep, sun-drunk and stoned, Mike asks a question. “What are you thinking right now?” _

_He can tell, without looking at Stan, the way his posture changes when he considers the question. It’s a certain set of his jaw, and his shoulders. He’s become an expert in reading Stan without realising it. _

_“I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I don’t know what to say, sorry. I wish I was – better at explaining myself.” _

_Mike squeezes his hand. “It’s no biggie. Just tell me what’s floating through your mind, right now.” _

_Stan sighs, and takes a breath. _

_“I’m thinking about how beautiful today is. I’m thinking about how the ruby-throated hummingbirds have completed their migration back here for the summer, and are here to breed in the warmer weather,” he says slowly, and then stops. “This is dumb, I’m sorry, I’m boring you.” _

_Mike laughs, sleepily, and squeezes Stan’s hand. “Shush, you could never bore me. I love hearing you talk about birds. I could listen to you talk about birds all day.” _

_Stan laughs, softly. “I doubt it, but thank you.” _

_He pauses. “I’m thinking about how I’ll be migrating too, soon. But it won’t be the same when I come back. I’m wondering if the hummingbirds ever miss each other? Do they lose track of each other? Do they find each other again when they come back? Do they –” he cuts himself off and takes a breath. _

_Mike holds his hand tight. “Alright, Stan. Let’s focus on that cloud there. Looks a bit like our cow, Jessie, you see?” _

_Stan almost laughs, kind of a shuddering sound. “Yep.” He breathes out. “Tell me something historical.” _

_Mike smiles slowly. “Alright.” He looks up at the clouds, thinking. “In World War One, a British poet named Wilfred Owen wrote from where he was fighting to a man he loved very much. He said, let me remember… ‘_And you have fixed my Life – however short…I spun round you a satellite for a month, but I shall swing out soon, a dark star in the orbit where you will blaze.’”

_Stan is quiet for a moment. “I can’t believe you remembered all of that,” he says, voice strange. _

_Mike chuckles. “Yeah, me too. Couldn’t get it out of my head, for a while.”_

_“What happened to him?” Stan asks. _

_Mike hesitates. “It’s kind of sad.” _

_“Tell me,” Stan says, seriously._

_“He was sent home, with an injury, and he spent an afternoon – probably a lot like this one, with this person he loved, and then they never saw each other again. He died when he went back to the battlefield.” _

_Stan shivers, and Mike can feel it next to him. “That is sad.” He pauses. “Why did you tell me that?” _

_“You asked!” Mike laughs, indignant, and Stan chuckles. He pauses. “I just wanted to tell you about that quote. It makes me think of you. I don’t want to make things sad, I just…don’t worry about the future right now. We’re orbiting each other, right now. You’re going to be amazing. Even when the summer ends, I won’t regret this. So when you’ve ‘migrated’ and you’re missing me, just remember Wilfred Owen: you have fixed my life, however short. They didn’t know each other even as long as we have, and it had a profound effect on his life. And you’ll always have had that on mine.” _

_Mike looks sideways, finally, and Stan looks at him. “I love you, you know,” he says, quietly, after a moment. “Don’t think you won’t have had the same effect on mine.” _

_Mike smiles at him. Stan smiles back, and curls up, head on Mike’s chest. “I don’t want to think about it. I just want to be here with you.” _

_“Alright,” Mike says, rifling through his curls gently, one-handed. _

“So, how do you want to tell everyone, then?” Mike asks, after a while, looking up at the ceiling. “How did you put it in that beautiful letter? Celebratory email blast?” He’s mostly joking, but not about the letter. He kind of wants to frame it. No one’s ever written him – or even done – something that romantic in his life.

Stan chuckles. “Maybe not. I was thinking we could have everyone over to my parents’ this afternoon, have them stay for dinner, and tell them then.” He pauses. “Bev kind of – guessed? So I told her about it. At least, the past stuff. I hope that was ok.”

Mike smiles to himself, feeling Stan’s head rise and fall gently with his chest. “Yeah, I mean, I already told her about me, so…And – I talked to her this morning about it, so I don’t think she’s going to be all that surprised.”

Stan chuckles again, and Mike feels the soft vibration in his skin. “No, I guess not.” He pauses again. “God, I hope everyone’s ok. It’s going to be super awkward if we tell everyone how happy we are and everyone else is still fighting and miserable.”

“True,” Mike considers. “I don’t want that, either. But you deserve to be happy, even when everyone else isn’t.”

Stan presses a light kiss to his chest. It feels hot at the point of contact.

He rubs his hand up and down Stan’s arm lightly. “I don’t think that’ll happen though. I have a hunch that at least two of the others are going to be very happy soon. Hopefully. I think we’re all going to be ok.”

“I think so too, actually,” Stan agrees quietly.

“Yeah, it’s only a matter of time before Ben and Bev – ” Mike starts, at the same time as Stan says, “If they can get out of their own way, Richie and Eddie –”

Stan sits up, resting his elbow next to Mike’s chest on the bed. “Wait, Ben’s going to do it?” He smiles. “Aw, I hope so. They deserve it. God knows Bev does.”

Mike smiles and looks at him, softly. “She does. And yeah, he gave me that impression when I dropped him off.”

Stan grins. “Good on him.”

Mike looks up at him. “So, you really think something’s going to happen with Richie and Eddie?”

Stan shrugs. “I talked a lot with Richie last night and this morning. I think he might actually be able to tell him, at least. And I’ll be proud of him, even if that’s all that comes of it.”

Mike smiles. “Me too. Actually, I should make sure he knows I’m not mad at him when I see him.”

Stan looks at him, surprised. “You were mad at him?”

Mike looks up at him. “Only because he hurt you. He should have known better, even if he was upset,” he says, matter-of-factly. “And maybe a bit because it felt like that led to our fight. But, now we’re good…I don’t feel upset or angry at him anymore at all. He’s still my friend. I’m still going to be _crazy_ proud of him if he was honest with Eddie.”

Stan beams at him. “Good. Wouldn’t do for you to be fighting.” He pauses. “Thanks for being upset on my behalf, though. Speaking of…you know, we’re going to have to invite Bill and his wife to dinner as well, right?” 

Mike groans, having momentarily forgotten about all of that, and lies back. “Oh God, right, she’s here too. I mean, will she accept that I was miserable over you as an explanation for my behaviour, and that I have no interest in pursuing anything with her husband?”

Stan snorts. “I think she’d probably be more worried that he wants to pursue something with you?”

Mike smirks at him. “You sure you were just upset at him on _my _behalf?”

Stan swipes lazily at him, grinning. “Yes, alright, we had a long and emotional conversation this morning, we’re all good. I think he really does love her. He just wasn’t…trusting her, with all of it.” He looks across at Mike, seriously. “But you don’t know that unless he tells you about it, ok? That only slipped out because I’m dangerously relaxed.”

Mike grins. “Good,” he says. “Come here,” he says, and Stan obeys, moving forward to kiss him.

***

Bill’s phone buzzes and he reads the message in their new group text chain.

“Babe, are you up to meeting everyone tonight? Stan wants us all over for dinner. Nothing special though. He says he’s thinking we’re all pretty tired, and he’ll provide pizza and maybe a movie.”

Audra looks up at him from where she’s snuggled up on his chest. “Are you sure they won’t mind if I come?”

Bill smiles back at her. “I can text him, but I doubt anyone’s going to mind.” He hesitates. “They’ll both be there, just so you know.”

“I figured, babe,” Audra replies, with a wry smile. “I can cope.”

“Just wanted to make sure,” he says, gently. “You still want to tell everyone the good news?”

She smiles wider. “Yep.”

“I’m glad, because I can’t _wait_,” he says, excited.

“I hope they like me,” she says, after a moment, quieter.

“How could they not?” he asks, and kisses her head.

***

Bev looks over at Ben as he pulls the car up outside Stan’s house. He looks good, having showered and changed out of yesterday’s clothes. Well, he looked good before, but he looks extra good in his white linen button-up. She watches the muscles in his forearms move as he holds the steering wheel, sleeves rolled up half-way. 

He kills the engine and looks over at her, smiling easily. “You ready?”

She smiles back, caught out. “I am.”

He doesn’t move for a moment.

“What?” she asks.

He smiles. “You just look so beautiful in that dress. Is it one of your designs?”

“Yeah, it is, but it’s from a few seasons ago.” She holds his gaze, smiling softly. “You already said that though.”

He colours slightly, but keeps his smile. “It needs to be said more than once.”

She smirks. “Well, you look pretty hot yourself, just so you know.”

He goes pink, smiling even wider. “Thanks,” he says. “Should we go in?”

She grins. “Sure. Unless you wanna stay here and make out?”

He coughs, eyes wide. 

She laughs. “No, you’re right, we should go in. I’m not ruling that out for later though.”

He splutters a laugh, shaking his head. “You can’t do that to me. I’ll have a heart attack.”

She laughs. “I’m sorry. I did seriously consider it; you look _great _in that shirt. But perhaps we should introduce this to at least _one _of our friends by telling them, _not_ showing them?”

He shakes his head, smiling abashedly. “Yeah, that may be a good call.”

They walk up to the house together, spotting Richie and Eddie walking ahead of them. She watches the comfortable way they knock their shoulders together, the easy sound of their laughing and bickering, and thinks if you knew what they were like normally, you might not guess how things had changed for them. But knowing that, it’s so obvious that they’re not guarding themselves, not holding back their affection for each other.

Her heart feels light. They deserve it so much.

“Hey, wait up!” she calls out. They turn around, and Richie grins at her as she and Ben catch up. “Marsh!”

“Tozier!” she says, grinning back. “Long time, no see. What’s new?”

He laughs. “Nothing interesting.”

“Hey, fuck you,” Eddie retorts, but he’s grinning. He attempts the kind of long-suffering look that is now ruined by the good mood he’s clearly in. “This idiot is trying to tell me that he doesn’t need to do laundry. I’m _horrified._”

Richie laughs, looking at him with blatant affection. “I don’t mean I don’t ever have it done! I just send it out! I don’t have time to do _laundry_!”

“You work from home, I’m sure you have time,” Eddie snarks.

“I travel all the time!” Richie protests. “Ben, back me up here. You travel a lot, and you’re rich, what do you do?”

Eddie groans. Bev watches Ben go faintly pink again. “Uh – ” he starts. Richie nods him on. He smiles. “Well, I’d like to state for the record that I _know _how to do laundry, my mom would be deeply ashamed otherwise. But I work and travel a lot, so I don’t really have time to – ”

“Hah!” Richie interrupts triumphantly. “See, Ben does it too, it’s not bad. He’s a functional adult, and so am I!”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Eddie deadpans, but ruins the effect by breaking into a smile.

“Well, no one can be as boring an adult as you Eds, that’s a real achievement,” Richie retorts, without any real heat.

“Fuck off,” Eddie scoffs, swiping at him as they walk up to the porch.

Bev shares an amused look with Ben.

“_Plus ça change, _right?” Ben mutters to her.

“Definitely_,_” she agrees.

“Stop your gossiping, lovebirds, because look who’s here,” Richie says, looking back at the front lawn from where he’s standing in front of them on the porch.

Bev looks around and feels a small thrill of anxiety. Bill and Audra are making their way up to the porch. She wonders if Bill’s told her about last night yet. She doesn’t _look _pissed, but she’s also a good actress. She and Eddie share a split second awkward look. It’s not like he has anything to apologise for.

Ben subtly touches his fingertips to hers and she suddenly feels warm, her anxiety quieting. She smiles at him, gratefully, and he smiles back.

Bill smiles and waves when they get near the porch. He doesn’t look stressed or upset either. A little tired, maybe. He doesn’t quite meet her eyes though.

“Hi guys,” Bill says, easiness masking that little slip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you all in ages!”

Richie grins. “Truly, Billiam, it’s been too long.”

Audra smiles a little at the nickname. She’s focused on Richie, and Bev isn’t sure what she’s going to do when they greet her, but she watches the interaction with interest.

“But also, you’re not important right now because,” Richie says, turning to Audra, looking excited. “When did Audra get here?”

Bill laughs indignantly.

Richie grins. “How long’s it been? Wait, do you remember me? This could be very embarrassing for me.”

“Unlike anything else you do or say on a regular basis,” Eddie interjects, and Richie’s grin grows.

Audra’s eyes widen, and she smiles – a genuine smile of excited recognition. “Of course I remember you, Richie! God, I don’t think I’ve seen you since, when? Just after Bill and I got married? It’s so good to see you, how are you?” she asks, and goes to hug him. He hugs her back, folding himself down because of the pronounced height difference. Bev finds herself very charmed by it.

Richie looks thrilled. “It’s good to see you too, wow, you look great!”

Audra beams. “Thanks, Rich – oh hey, I remember you from last night!” she says warmly, looking at Eddie properly. Eddie’s cheeks go faintly pink, and Bev grins at him.

“Eddie, right? You guys were so helpful! Thank you again,” Audra says, smiling gratefully at him.

Eddie smiles, looking less uncomfortable. “Nice to meet you again.”

“When you’re not completely smashed,” Richie adds, and Eddie’s brows knit themselves together.

“Richie’s being annoying because you’re not giving him any attention,” he says, attempting to ignore Richie.

Richie grins, looking at Audra. “Don’t listen to Eddie, he’s jealous of my good looks and personal success.”

Audra laughs. Bev catches Bill’s eye, finally, and he smiles at her. It’s an easy smile that she thinks says, _I’ve talked to my wife and I don’t expect you to hide anything_, and not, _be cool and don’t act guilty_. She’s assuming a lot. But he doesn’t look stressed, so she’s going to hope it’s the former.

She zones back in on Eddie saying, only half-seriously, “- and if I’m jealous of anyone’s good looks and success I think you know it’s Ben’s.”

She looks at Ben, and smirks at him. He smiles back, then seems to realise everyone’s looking at him.

“Uh, on that note, I think Ben’s the only person here you haven’t met?” Bill says, steering Audra gently away from the bickering Richie and Eddie.

“Oh, this is your most good looking and successful friend, then?” Audra teases Bill, and Bev decides she _definitely _likes her.

Bill laughs, semi-indignantly. He smiles at Ben. “Audra, Ben. He’s definitely one of my nicest friends.”

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you,” Audra says, smiling. She turns to Bev, finally. Moment of truth. Bev’s heart skips a beat.

She doesn’t stop smiling, though, and it doesn’t seem fake. “I wanted to thank you, too, Bev. I know it doesn’t seem like much, but really, the _odyssey _I had trying to get to this town, I was so grateful for anyone helping me out when I got in. And thanks for the socks!”

There’s something in her eyes that isn’t just an obliviousness to the messy situation she’d stumbled into, the kind she’d seen when they first met. Bev thinks she knows, and is silently grateful she’s doesn’t look mad about it. She smiles at Audra warmly. “Don’t mention it. Did they keep you warm?”

“Very!” she says, and then shivers. “Kind of wish I had them now.”

Bill grins fondly. “Sorry, I wouldn’t have had your first experience of Maine be in November, but you surprised me.”

Richie comes up closer to them, with Eddie in tow. “Yeah, what the fuck are we all doing standing around out here? What are we waiting for, exactly?”

Bev looks at Bill as the same thought seems to occur to them both. “Mike’s not here,” he says, concerned. Bev clocks the brief flicker across Audra’s expression at his name, and wonders if they had a deeper talk than she realises. She looks around and across the lawn, like they’re going to catch him strolling up to the porch, just running a little later.

“I hope they’re not still fighting.”

“They’re fighting?” Eddie says, confused, reminding Bev that not everyone knows the entirety of their extremely fucked up afternoon and night.

“I’m sure I told you this before, keep up, Spaghetti,” Richie replies quickly. She recognises the guilt in his eyes.

Eddie frowns at him. “You absolutely did not, I would’ve remembered, you were too busy – “

Richie holds a hand up. “Not the _time_, Eduardo.”

Eddie goes mutinously quiet until Richie grins a little at him, though his eyes still look anxious. 

“Well, we can ring him from inside, if we have to. Let’s get in before my wife freezes.” Bill says, practically.

Audra grins. “Aw, my hero.”

He smiles at her. “Well, I have to protect you. Especially now,” he says, in an undertone, and she smiles back at him.

Before Bev can think more on that, though, Richie raps on the front door. “Hey! Stan! Let us in, we’re fucking freezing out here!” he calls, obnoxiously, and Eddie groans. She grins at him, shaking her head.

They cluster around the front door, but it’s not Stan that opens it, it’s –

“Mike, you’re here!” Richie says, looking relieved.

“So you’re _not _– ” Eddie says, and then Richie elbows him. Eddie rubs his arm and glares at Richie.

“Not what?” Mike asks, curiously, and then remembers everyone’s standing outside. “Come in, everyone.”

Bev sees him clock Bill and Audra, slightly anxious, and catches his eye. He smiles at her, eyes flicking to Ben and back. She smiles enigmatically, hoping he gets the _we’ll talk soon _message. She thinks he does, by his slight nod when he welcomes them through the doorway.

***

Mike tells them all that Stan’s in the living room.

Bill looks at Audra, who seems to understand that he wants to talk to Mike, and hangs back with him.

Mike looks a little worried, but smiles politely at them anyway. “You must be Audra?” he says, and then half-chuckles, nervously. “I don’t know why I said that, I know who you are. But it’s nice to meet you, finally.”

Bill watches them both, nervous himself. It’s not like he’s expecting Audra to try and tear out Mike’s eyes with her bare hands, but he can feel the tension of the moment is high for all three of them.

She gives him a genuine, calm look. “It’s ok, Mike. You don’t have to be nervous. Bill told me, and we’ve talked a lot today. It’s alright.”

Mike looks a little surprised. “It’s alright?”

Audra nods. “We’re good. Unless you’re in love with my husband,” she adds, half-joking.

Mike laughs. “No I’m – I’m definitely not in love with him.” The way he stresses _him _slightly is interesting, but Bill will have to ask about it later.

Audra smiles at Mike, and holds out a hand. “Good. Then I’m just going to say, it’s nice to meet you.”

He shakes her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says again, and then grins, sheepish. “I already said that.”

Audra laughs. “Still nice to hear. Thanks for having us, too.”

Mike shakes his head. “Oh no, this is Stan’s place. I’m just – helping out.”

He smiles in a way that Bill definitely wants to ask about, but then says, “Actually, I’m guessing you haven’t met him yet?”

Audra shakes her head. “Heard a lot of good things, though.”

Mike smiles, contentedly. “I’m not surprised. Come on, he’s through here.”

Mike leads them into the living room, and Audra turns to Bill with a wicked grin. Very quietly, she whispers to him, “Well, I get it _now_.”

Bill feels his cheeks go hot, but at the same time he is intensely grateful he’s married to her and no-one else.

***

Everyone sits on and around the couches, talking and catching up. Richie is sitting next to Stan with Eddie on his other side, turned to talk to Bill and Audra. Personally, he thinks it’s an achievement that he hasn’t shouted “_CAN YOU FUCKING BELIEVE I’M DATING THIS GUY? EDDIE? MY LONG-TERM SECRET DEEP-CRUSH??_” Because literally, apart from Eddie, there’s only one person in this room that apparently didn’t know that. Technically, he hasn’t _asked _everyone, but after hearing it from Bev, Ben _and _Stan, Mike was probably too nice to ask about it, and he’s not even sure it escaped Bill’s single-minded attention.

He also kind of wants to shout “_CAN YOU BELIEVE HOW FUCKING BRAVE THIS GUY IS? ONLY CAME OUT TODAY AND HAS ALREADY TOLD TWO PEOPLE ABOUT US? BALLS OF STEEL, THIS ONE!” _except Eddie would definitely glare at him.

When he’s not getting distracted by Eddie, and anytime Eddie’s hipbone lightly nudges him – pressed up against him because they’re eight grown adults who have to fit into a small space together, and he has apparently not been a hacky middle-aged stand-up comedian, but an 18th century romantic heroine his whole life because he’s _losing his mind _just from that contact – he’s noticing something else.

“You seem _suspiciously _relaxed, Staniel-the-Maniel,” he says, narrowing his eyes in mock-seriousness. It’s not like anything has changed with his appearance, same neat long-sleeve, button-up shirts. Same glasses, same neat hair. His eyes are different though – they haven’t fucking changed colour, or shape, or something, they’re just missing whatever heaviness was there the last few days, even when he was having fun with everyone. Or it’s lightened, somehow. Whatever. He’s not the therapist here.

Stan shrugs. “I’m just feeling good,” he says calmly, with just the hint of a smirk.

“You didn’t even _flinch _at that nickname, I’m starting to get worried. Are you a pod person?” Richie asks, suspiciously.

Stan grins. “No. Although if I was, would I be likely to tell you?”

Richie has to concede the point. “True.”

Stan looks at him curiously. “And you seem kind of…distracted.” He smirks a little more. “You never told me how you went this morning,” he says in an undertone, eyes flicking over to Eddie and back.

Richie attempts a casual shrug, and can’t help smiling. “Whatever. We hashed things out. We are…not fighting,” he says, searching for a suitably vague way to put it. He _desperately _wants to tell Stan – the only person who directly told him to go and apologise that doesn’t know yet – but as much as he wants to yell about it and tell everyone, especially everyone here, he feels like he has to leave that to Eddie. Maybe if they were months in and he still hadn’t told anyone, Richie might start wanting to push, might be mad. But even though this day has felt _extremely long _it’s still just been one day. He can wait for it, for now. For Eddie.

Stan studies him, smirking, but drops it. “I’m glad you’re not fighting.”

“Me too,” Richie says, grinning. He turns it back on Stan. “So, how was the rest of your day? I see you and Mike are good again?” he says, raising an eyebrow.

Stan nods, with a small, relaxed smile. “We’re also not fighting. We’re good.”

Richie looks at him and is about to ask more – maybe he’s just happy that they’re friends again, that’s a big enough victory right now, but Richie thinks there’s definitely something else – when Mike asks, “Who wants drinks? We have a lot of non-alcoholic ones, in case, like me, you feel like you maybe overdid it a bit the last few nights?” He chuckles, but Richie knows exactly what he means.

There’s a kind of collective groan of agreement from around the room.

He notices Bill go a little pink, grinning sheepishly, and, interestingly, Audra grins too. Richie wonders whether she knows. They had spent a while in the entryway, the three of them, before they’d come to join everyone. He figures Bill is a pretty moral guy, lapses in judgment notwithstanding, at least 60% powered by guilt most of the time, so he wouldn’t let himself off the hook for cheating.

He raises his eyebrows at Stan, who smirks slightly. He gets up to help with the drinks.

Once everyone is seated again with a drink, Audra speaks up. “I just wanted to say, I know I’m kind of crashing your weekend here with Stan, and I’m sorry, but I am really glad to meet you guys. I know what you mean to Bill.

Richie smiles at them, and catches Bill’s eye. It’s kind of – everyone has the same look, he realises. Kind of tired, but relaxed. Calmer than any of them have been at any point this weekend. Bill smiles back at him, and looks back to his wife. If you’d asked Richie last night whether Bill was still in love with his wife, he might have said it was fifty-fifty, with definite signs pointing to no, but he realises now that’s not true. He really does seem to love her. And, annoyingly, love has clearly made Richie soft, if he’s thinking these things.

“Well, I don’t mind,” Stan says, kindly. “I think we’re all just glad to finally meet you.”

Everyone cheers in agreement, raising their glasses. Richie smiles at Audra, and she smiles back, looking touched by the unexpected swell of affection for her in the room.

“Well, I’d already met her so you’re all gonna have to work hard to replace me as her favourite,” Richie says. Audra laughs.

Eddie gives him a sidelong look. “I think I could take you.”

“Somewhere fancy?” Richie shoots back with a smirk, just to watch Eddie’s face work to suppress a frustrated smile.

“You know what I meant! If you’re my closest competition in a likability contest, I don’t think I’ll do too badly,” Eddie retorts, with a fierce, oddly confident look in his eyes that makes Richie wish they weren’t around literally all of their friends right now.

Bill grins at him. He shares a look with Audra, and she gives him a little nod. “Actually, now that we’re all here, I wanted to tell you guys something.”

Richie notices everyone look at Bill with renewed curiosity. Something like nervousness passes over Mike’s face, but he catches Bill’s eye and seems reassured by what he finds there. Richie thinks he doesn’t need to worry - it’s unlikely he wants to tell anyone who didn’t already witness their drunk makeout session that it happened.

“Audra had to come down because she needed to tell me something important in person,” Bill starts. “Luckily, production’s halted for a few days anyway.”

“Enough with the suspense-building, Hitchcock,” Richie ribs. “Tell us the news!”

Bill flips him off casually, not missing a beat, the way you can with people you’ve grown up with, people you’ve known since you were too young to remember it. Richie grins.

“As I was _saying,_” he says, dramatically emphasising the last word like the drama queen he is, “We weren’t sure whether to say anything, but I guess we wanted to tell you guys first… Audra’s pregnant. We’re having a baby.”

There’s a second of silence, then everyone erupts in excited cheers of congratulations, all of them beaming at Bill. Next to him, Eddie is congratulating Bill, more excited than Richie can remember him looking since they were kids. He uses the general distraction to press his hand to the small of Eddie’s back, just quickly, and then he gets up. “Alright, make way Eds, I’ve got two people to hug at once, and I need space for that.”

Eddie looks at him. “You think you could wait five seconds, maybe?” he snipes. His eyes are full of affection, though, and he can’t keep a smile off his face.

“You remember the rule, no Bill-monopolising,” Richie replies, grinning. Not so much when they got older, but when they were very young and it was just the four of them, sometimes Richie would be annoyed that he couldn’t hang out with his best friend all the time, or that he wasn’t always the person sharing things and making him laugh. Soon enough, he realised why Bill liked these other kids – started to enjoy hanging out with them separately too – but they all knew that they orbited around him, so they sometimes joked that no one was allowed to hang out with him too much over the others.

“Alright, I’m coming in,” Richie says, grinning at Bill and Audra.

Bill laughs and looks at her, “You can say no –”

Richie cuts him off. “Can’t hear you, gotta hug,” he says, throwing his arms around them, half-pulling them up and half-falling into the couch with them.

“I’m so sorry, babe,” Bill says, laughing when he lets them go. Audra is laughing too.

Richie grins, looking at Audra. “Don’t listen to him, he loves me really.”

Bill grins too. “It’s true.”

He looks back at Bill. “Really, though. Good – work?” Bill coughs an unexpected laugh. “I don’t know what people say about this! I’m stupid happy for you though.” He looks at Audra. “Both of you.”

“We’re pretty stupid-happy about it, too,” she says. And she does look lit up with happiness.

He looks between them. “Well, I’m glad this baby is going to have your looks as well, Audra. At least it’ll only be half-gargoyle.”

Bill shakes his head. “Fuck off,” he says, laughing. “I _knew _you could only be sincere for so long.”

“Aw, you know I love you,” he says, beaming. He lurches forward to throw his arms around Bill’s neck, pulling him up and Bill groans, but goes with it anyway.

“Eds, get over here and help me hug Bill,” he calls. Eddie does so, but when he does everyone else seems to have the same idea, and suddenly it’s a crush of people around them, laughing and holding onto each other.

From somewhere behind him, Stan says, “Really, that’s amazing, Bill. I also want to say this to Audra, but I cannot see her at all right now.”

Richie hears her laugh from the couch. “Thanks, Stan,” she calls.

“Agreed,” Bev says. “I couldn’t be happier for you, Bill!” she says, in such a genuinely thrilled way that no-one could possibly think she felt any different. “I’m going to make this baby _such _cute clothes, just you wait.”

Richie doesn’t think Bill could _look_ any happier. “That would be _amazing_, but don’t put yourself out.”

Bev beams. Everyone looks at Bill, mirroring each other’s expressions. He looks back at them. “I’m so glad I get to share this with you all. You and Audra – you’re my family. You’re gonna be this kid’s family.” Bill’s eyes are filling again, but he keeps smiling.

“We’re all gonna be here for them,” Mike says, and his eyes are _very_ watery, but he’s managing to keep it together, at least for the next minute.

“Definitely. This kid’s gonna have more uncles than they can shake a stick at, Bill,” Ben says, beaming. “And one awesome aunt.” Bev grins at him. He beams back. Richie wonders if he and Eddie are being that obvious.

“You wouldn’t be crying, would you, Rich?” Eddie asks him.

He sniffs. “Hey, so are Mike and Bev! In fact, so is everyone else I can see! Why are you singling me out?”

Eddie laughs, and quietly presses a hand to the small of his back, before they all go in to hug Bill again.

***

Eddie is standing up against the wall, looking out at everyone. He’d been talking to Ben, but then he’d gone off to take a work call. Richie’s still chatting with Bill, Audra and Stan on the couch. 

He’s so tall it’s ridiculous, even when he’s sitting. Eddie likes being able to see him when he doesn’t think he’s being watched. He won’t self-consciously slip into a silly voice or pull a face. Eddie can just admire him – the genuine smile he has around friends, not the kind that he uses in shows, the way it lights up his face; and the several-days-old beard growth that left a small rash on Eddie’s face that only went down _just _before they left.

“God, Eddie, if you stare at him any harder I think your eyes are gonna pop out of your skull,” Bev’s voice says quietly, next to him. He turns to look at her, feeling his cheeks warm.

“Can’t help it. He looks really good tonight,” he says in an undertone to her.

She smiles at him, happy and slightly mischievous. “If you keep looking at him like that, it won’t just be me and Ben that know.”

He grins, looking down. “Oh, like you can talk. You’re not even trying to hide it.”

She laughs, gently. “Hey, I have restrained myself from public makeouts. I feel like that’s taking a lot of self-control.”

Eddie chuckles. “Yeah I…get that,” he says, looking over at Richie again, and then back. 

She smiles at him softly. “You really love him, huh?”

Eddie smiles back, and feels suddenly choked-up for a moment. “Yeah,” he says, hoarsely. “Yeah, I do.”

Bev suddenly throws her arms around his neck, enveloping him in a tight hug. “I’m so happy for you, Eddie,” she whispers.

“Back at you,” he whispers back. “You deserve it so _fucking _much.”

“So do you,” she says, letting him go and blinking.

He looks away for a moment. “I wanna tell everyone. But I – I have no idea how.”

Bev shrugs. “Don’t feel like you _have _to, this is your thing. But if you want to, I mean…just go over and tell everyone you’ve also got some news.”

“That easy?” he deadpans.

Bev smirks. “That easy, babe. Everyone here loves you.” She pauses. “Well, I don’t think Audra has known you long enough for that, but she certainly likes you. Even after last night.”

Eddie scoffs, laughing. He looks at Bev and she nods.

“I can do this,” he says, steadily.

“Yeah you can!” Bev says, supportively.

He walks over to where the rest of the room is congregated, and catches Richie’s eye. Richie looks amused. “Eds, you look like a man with a plan.”

“I am,” he says, fiercely happy. Richie’s eyes widen slightly. Bill, Audra, Stan and Mike turn their attention to him. He notices Ben has come back in from outside, looking slightly confused, but interested.

Eddie looks at them all, and smiles. “So, uh, quick update, guys. I’m…gay. Which means I’m probably going to be getting a divorce pretty soon. Which is not awesome, but I feel pretty fucking amazing about it.”

No one seems especially surprised, which he probably shouldn’t be offended by, but after taking a second to digest the information, they all smile at him as happily as they did earlier.

“That’s really great Eddie, I’m proud of you,” Bill says warmly.

“Yeah, congrats, man,” Mike adds, beaming.

Stan just looks at him, and he gets it.

His heart is fluttering in his chest, fast but light as well. Turns out removing the millstone you’ve been wearing for nearly your entire life, or at least three-quarters of it, isn’t so hard when you’re around the people who love you. And who you love.

Richie looks at him, with so much affection and bemusement in his expression that Eddie is almost physically knocked out with the force of it. Richie seems to know everyone’s eyes are on him, but he’s only looking at Eddie.

“I can’t believe you did it like that, jeez,” he says, and laughs. Eddie is torn between indignation and _badly _wanting to kiss the line of his throat.

“I don’t know why _you’re_ laughing, Richie, considering you’re the idiot who’s dating me,” Eddie says triumphantly, heart hammering but in a good way, like he’s finishing a marathon.

_Now _everyone goes crazy, cheering loud.

“I fucking _knew it_, Richie! _Not fighting _indeed,” Stan calls out, and Eddie laughs, not quite sure, but able to figure out from context what they’d talked about earlier.

Richie’s jaw drops, and he starts laughing again. “Eds, you crazy fucker, that’s the sexiest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Well, then, I worry about you,” Eddie says, tongue in cheek, but Richie stands up.

“_Please_ keep doing so,” he says, and kisses him, to whoops and wolf-whistles.

***

Richie isn’t sure how he got this lucky, or maybe he’s just finally lost it (what little of _it _he had originally), but if you had told him at thirteen that one day he’d be free and able to kiss Eddie in Stan’s parents’ living room, in front of all their friends? He would have called you crazy or an asshole – or a crazy asshole – and moped about it for the rest of the day.

“Like a pair of teenagers!” Stan calls, mock-scolding.

Richie turns to face him, grinning so much he can’t quite manage indignance – but he tries anyway. “I know it offends your delicate sense of propriety, Stangela Lansbury, but we’re not exactly _making out _in a public lobby like Ben and – ”

Eddie elbows him. “Richie!”

Stan grins, and looks at Ben, who is faintly pink, and Bev, who is smirking unapologetically, having moved over to stand by him at some point.

“Cat’s out of the bag?” she says lightly, shrugging. “Thanks, Richie.”

Richie cringes slightly, grinning at her. “Sorry guys, I got caught up in zinging Stan.”

Stan snorts, behind him.

He looks at Ben, who is smiling, only slightly embarrassed. “Yeah, I think I can forgive you.”

“Thanks, man,” he says, grinning at him.

Richie’s gaze lands on Bill, and he notices he’s not the only one. Bill, however, has turned his head and is looking at Ben and Bev with genuine joy and pride. He just nods at them, and they nod back happily. Maybe he’s exhausted from the day’s emotions, or maybe it’s too weird to say more publicly, but Richie feels good about it. He doesn’t seem disappointed at all, the way he’s looking at his wife now, as he talks to her.

Richie sinks down next to Eddie and lies back against the couch. Eddie follows suit, so they’re facing each other. “God, I’m exhausted.”

“From your busy schedule of outing relationships to everyone?” Eddie teases.

“I did it once, and they were fine!” Richie protests. “But aren’t you tired?”

Eddie chuckles. “A bit, I guess. In a good way, though. I’m looking forward to a chill night now.”

“Me too,” Richie says, sighing contentedly.

***

“So, I think we should order if we’re going to eat anytime soon,” Stan says to the assembled room. The assembled couples, he should say. “Is pizza still good with everyone?”

They all give a general murmur of agreement.

“Well, what my personal trainer doesn’t know won’t kill him,” Ben adds, to general laughter.

“Snap, me too!” Audra agrees. “And those studio assholes.” She turns to Bill. “If they ask, it was a kale salad.”

“I will take it to my grave,” Bill assures her.

Stan looks at them, and how happy everyone looks with their partners. It’s a strange feeling – he’s ecstatically happy for them, but there’s something else as well.

He catches Mike’s eye for a moment, and Mike smiles back at him, a soft look in his eyes. He smiles, and his heart swells. “I think there are some menus in the kitchen, I’ll go get them,” he says to everyone calmly, and gets up to get them.

He hears the door open as he’s rustling around looking for menus in the junk drawer.

Mike closes the door, and walks over to rest against the counter beside him. “You ok?” he says simply.

Stan looks at him. He looks calm, caring but not over-worried. Stan finds he appreciates this, because it’s not like he’s feeling bad right now.

He smiles softly at Mike. “I am.”

“But something’s going on,” Mike continues, not missing a trick.

Stan sighs, ending in a weak chuckle. “It’s stupid. It’s not like I’m – upset, you know?” 

“So what are you?” Mike asks, smiling a little. Even that makes his knees want to give out, makes him feel warm and boneless and somewhere that isn’t here.

Stan shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says honestly, looking back at Mike. “I wanted to tell everyone. I wanted to prove that I could – do that for you. And I’m _insanely thrilled _for everyone out there – ” he laughs quietly, genuinely. “I can’t believe everything worked out, and I’m so happy it has, but I just – ” he trails off softly. “Tonight has already been a _lot_, I’m not sure anyone has the energy to hear any more.”

Mike smiles and turns to wind his arms around Stan in a loose embrace. “Yeah, I get it. But here’s the thing, Stan – I told you before, you don’t have to do this for me. They’ll know when we tell them, and if that’s not tonight, it’s not the end of the world. We can still just have fun with our friends, you know?”

Stan smiles at him. “It may have also been slight jealousy. I don’t want to just watch you across a room of couples, you know?”

Mike gives him such a tender look that if Mike hadn’t already been holding him, he might have collapsed entirely. “Yeah, I know. Soon,” he says, quiet and low, and stoops down to kiss him.

“Hey, the pizza place has online menus so we can – uh…” Stan hears, and he and Mike separate – although Mike doesn’t let him go, it’s not like they really care _now _– so they can look at Bev, who is sheepishly closing the door one-handed behind her.

“Guess the cat’s out of the bag on this one too,” Stan deadpans, though he can’t help smirking a little.

Bev’s smile lights up her face, and if she’s tearing up a little, neither of them mention it. “Well, fucking come and hug me already, you dorks!” she sniffs, beaming.

Mike laughs. He rubs Stan’s back briefly before letting him go so they can go hug Bev, who comes forward to meet them. She wraps her arms around them both as tight as she can, and they hug her back just as tightly.

No one is all that dry-eyed once they finally let go, but none of them mention it out of deference to the others.

Bev swats Mike lightly on the arm. “So I see you took our conversation this morning to heart, huh?”

He grins, sheepish. “Ok, it might have been less hopeless than I thought.”

Stan looks at him, amused. “You talked about me?”

Mike rolls his eyes, and it’s oddly familiar. “Don’t act like you’re surprised. In fact, you probably have Bev to thank for me giving you a chance.”

Stan scoffs half-indignantly, but can’t help smiling. He turns to Bev. “Well, I guess thanks are in order. And when did _yours _happen?”

She actually blushes at this, surprising Stan. “Uh, this morning. Lucky I have a brother who deposited him at my door right when I needed to talk to him.”

Mike grins. “Couldn’t be happier I did.”

Bev looks between them, beaming, and then looks suddenly curious. “I’m not judging – I can understand if it’s too new to tell us yet – but if not, why didn’t you tell everyone before? I mean, it kind of seems like it would have been the best time?”

Mike looks at Stan, and Stan smiles at him, and then wryly back at Bev. “I was actually going to tell everyone tonight. But – I just think we’re all pretty tired today, clearly we’ve all been through a lot emotionally_, _and maybe we’ve all got surprise fatigue. It’s not the end of the world if we don’t tell everyone tonight.”

Bev nods. “I mean, it’s definitely been _a day_, I won’t disagree. But it just – it seems unfair to you to have to hide this. Especially while we’re all so…obnoxiously loved-up, right now.”

Mike chuckles, and Stan smirks at this. “So what do you think we should do, then?”

Bev shrugs. “I want you to do what you’re comfortable with. But even if we _are _tired, I think the others would want to know. They’d want to see you happy, Stan, it’s the reason we’re all _here._”

He sniffs. “Goddamnit, Bev,” he says, smiling at her.

***

“You know how long it’s been since I had pizza? Jesus Christ,” Ben says, sighing. He doesn’t tell them the exact amount of time because he doesn’t know, but it’s been at least seven years. He hadn’t even expected it to be that good here. They’re on the couch, eating off plates on laps, and it’s messy and undignified, but he looks at Bev’s expression of undisguised glee, and his friends laughing good-naturedly, and he thinks it’s the best meal he’s had in ages.

“God, with you there,” Audra says, rapturously. “I mean, I like what I eat generally, but, God, at what cost?”

“Mhm,” Ben agrees emphatically.

“Was it worth it then, guys? Was it worth it to have washboard abs?” Richie asks. “Audra, I’m assuming you have them too.”

“You know it, Rich.” Audra grins.

She smiles, thoughtful. “You know it’s funny - I wasn’t sure, because it was weird that Bill was dropping everything at a moments notice to go be with you all, but I’d only ever met one of you, and even that was a long time ago,” she starts, and grins mischievously at Bill, before turning back to everyone else. “But, meeting you all, I totally get it, you guys are great! Honestly, I feel like when I saw you all, I had this _Love, Actually _moment – Colin Firth has this whole love story with a beautiful Portuguese woman – “

Everyone watches her, eating, amused and curious. Bill looks like he doesn’t quite know where she’s going with this, but he grins anyway.

She’s good at being the centre of attention, but not in an obnoxious way, Ben appreciates.

“ – So, spoilers for a movie from 2003 – ”

“Mike’s _definitely _seen it,” Richie adds, grinning.

“Oh and tell me again how many Vin Diesel movies you’ve seen, noted cineaste?” Mike parries, from next to Ben on the couch, grinning only a little sheepishly.

Everyone chuckles at the back and forth, including Audra. “So at the end, Colin’s brought her back to London, and she meets his friends for the first time at Heathrow – ” Audra continues, grinning. Mike is grinning too, no doubt recognising what she’s talking about. Ben thinks he might have seen it a long time ago, but can’t really remember it. He never has time to watch anything.

“And she sees all his gorgeous friends, including Keira Knightley, mind, and she goes, with the English that she’s recently learned, although I won’t do the accent because I feel like that’s dicey, ‘maybe I made wrong choice? Picked wrong Englishman?”

Everyone cracks up, even Bill. Ben can see what Bill likes about her, why she’s good for him, in the way he goes very red, and shakes his head, but still laughs into her neck. Maybe he needs someone to make fun of him a bit, lovingly. 

Stan speaks up after a moment, on Mike’s other side, grinning with the aftermath of a good laugh. “Well, we like having you here, especially if you keep flattering our egos,” he says to Audra warmly.

She beams. He looks around at everyone. “But I did actually have an ulterior motive for bringing everyone together tonight.”

“I knew it!” Richie crows. “More work?” Eddie elbows him. “– which, obviously, we’re here to help with,” he adds quickly.

Stan gives him a look, only at half-power. He can’t seem to summon enough irritation for it – which for them is extremely rare. Ben watches and listens curiously.

“No, it wasn’t that, jeez,” he says, not sounding nearly as frustrated as Ben’s come to expect from their dynamic. Stan takes a breath. “So, yeah, it’s been a bit of a year,” he says, with bone-dry humour.

Everyone watches him, not exactly worried, but the mood is suddenly a little heavier. He’s being light about it, but it’s hard not to think about the bleak reality of it. The fact that Ben hasn’t seen him wear a single shirt that isn’t long-sleeved the whole time he’s been here – maybe it’s been cold, but he knows it’s not just that.

He pauses, thoughtfully. “And I’m so glad you guys have been here. I don’t think – well, it would have been a hundred times worse to have to go through all this stuff on my own.” He looks at Mike, smiling. Mike smiles back, soft and supportive.

There’s something different about it, but he can’t figure out what, right now. Something is gnawing at his memory.

Stan looks back around the room. “And I’m so thrilled to know you all again, you guys, you’re my family. So I wanted to tell you this earlier, but that was like, three big reveals ago. I worry mine’s not that original now - well, this won’t come as a surprise to at least three of you,” he says, with a wry smile, sharing an enigmatic look with Bev, who is sitting on the end of the couch next to Ben.

Ben turns to her, giving her a questioning look. She’s beaming knowingly, but she shrugs exaggeratedly. He can ask her after Stan finishes his speech.

“But, um,” he says, almost nervous. He takes a breath. Mike is watching him, carefully, gently. “I’m in love with Mike. I mean, not while I was – ” his voice cuts off, and Mike takes his hand gently. He smiles, seems to calm again. “We’re in love. We’re going to be together, now,” he says, steadily.

Again, the room erupts with excited, happy cheers.

“I fucking _knew it, _Stanislaus, you _fucking hypocrite_! You’re telling _me _off for _not fighting_?” Richie calls, grinning irrepressibly. Stan smirks at him.

Ben looks at Bev, and she looks lit up with happiness. “So you knew, then?” he says, quietly, smiling. She nods.

“Who do you think convinced us to tell,” Mike says, in a supremely contented undertone, on his other side.

He turns to Mike, and throws his arms around him. Mike hugs back tightly.

“Congrats man!” he says, happily. Mike looks so much more at peace, so much less tired even, than this morning – and that’s when the gnawing thing finally takes shape in his mind. “Oh my god, this morning. You were talking about Stan.” He remembers their conversation. “Oh god, I’m sorry if I gave you bad advice. It was hard, not knowing the context.”

Mike shakes his head, looking slightly embarrassed. “Ah, yeah. It’s so weird that that was just this morning, because I was in a totally different – sort of, headspace, you know? I kind of thought this was impossible.”

Ben shares a look with him. “Yeah, I can understand that. You could’ve told me though, you know.”

Mike nods. “I didn’t want to out him. I wanted him to be able to tell you.” Mike chuckles. “And it worked out. Who’d’ve thought?”

Bev loops an arm around Ben, grinning at Mike. “Well, I for one am glad it did.”

“Wait, did this just happen?” Eddie says, delighted but undeniably confused, which on him sounds a lot more irritated than it should. “When did you even – ”

Mike looks back at Stan, who grins, distinctively mischievously, at him, and then back at Eddie. “Uh, so you remember the last summer before college? After I got dumped by Rachel Adler? It kind of started – and finished then.”

Eddie’s jaw drops, and Ben’s glad he can’t see him grinning because he would absolutely start on him, _what the fuck are you laughing at, man_ in the Jade of the Orient all over again. “Obviously I’m fucking _thrilled _that this is happening for you guys, but what the _fuck? Especially you, Stan, _you could have told me?” He’s mad in the way that he’s not really mad, but he has to have his moment.

Stan shares a portentous, long-suffering look with Richie.

Richie pats Eddie’s gesticulating arm down, putting his own around Eddie placatingly. Eddie frowns, but lets himself be pacified. “Babe, trust me, you don’t wanna go down that road.”

Eddie looks at him, understands, and grins at Stan. “Well, I’m really fucking proud of you, man.”

Ben thinks about that summer, the times they did all get to be together. Mingled excitement and deep sadness. There had been an unusual calmness in Stan, and he’d never quite realised it wasn’t just the relief of finishing school and getting into the college he wanted to. It was there he realises – now he thinks about it – in their smiles to each other, casual touches, leaning against each other when they’d been drinking or smoking, that last party in the woods where both of them had disappeared at some point – Oh. Well. He can forgive them for abandoning him at the fire. He was falling asleep, drunk and warm. And they must have known that was the end for them.

But not forever.

“Hey, Ben,” Richie calls, shaking him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah, Rich?” he asks, smiling.

“Does this make you our token straight friend?”

Everyone cracks up again.

***

Richie sits on the porch steps and takes a drag of his cigarette, looking out at the big tree across the road again. It was literally just a day and a half ago that he was sitting here, reading Stan’s letter. _That _had kind of led to a series of events he hadn’t expected to get so out of control. He still feels kind of crappy about it, if he thinks about it. To be fair to himself, he’d had nothing to do with Bev and Ben’s thing, and he couldn’t have predicted the Bill thing – but still, he kind of feels like he set the dominos off.

He’s just slipped out for a smoke, because he was _dying _for one, leaving Eddie chatting with Stan and Ben.

“Can I steal one?” someone says behind him.

He turns around, and whatever he was going to say dies in his throat. It’s not that Mike’s been cold to him tonight, he’s been perfectly polite, and seemed genuinely excited after Eddie’s announcement. But they haven’t been alone yet, and Mike’s well-mannered enough not to be rude in company.

“Uhm, sure,” he says, holding out the box to Mike, who drops down next to him.

Mike looks at his expression and smiles, disarmingly. “Rich, it’s alright. I didn’t come out to yell at you, or anything.”

Richie hadn’t realised his expression was saying that, but accepts with a relieved sigh. “Ok, good, cause I think I’ve had enough of that.”

Mike chuckles wearily, holding his cigarette out for Richie to light. “I can understand that.”

They smoke in silence for a bit.

“I’m – fuckin’ sorry, Mike, for pulling you guys into my shit. I think I was just a bit – hurt – that Stan never told me, when I kind of told him everything…” he says, surprising himself. “It’s not important, we talked it out, but I’m – fuckin’ so sorry if I fucked things up between you yesterday. It was shitty, and assholish, and neither of you deserved it, especially you, man, you’re like one of the nicest people I’ve ever known –”

Mike blows out smoke, smiles and holds up a hand to slow him down. “Hey, hey, Richie. I appreciate the apology, but we’re all adults. I might have been a bit annoyed…but ultimately it wasn’t your fault I fought with Stan. You made choices, and maybe they influenced ours, but we still made them. You didn’t force Stan to flip out at me, or me to – ” he winces, slightly. “Well, it doesn’t matter. You didn’t make us do the things we did yesterday just because you were drunk and angry.”

Richie nods. “Thanks, Mike. So we’re good?”

Mike nods, smiling again. “We’re good.”

He waits a beat. “I feel like, in the spirit of mature adult honesty, I should let you know I was with Stan last night. When –”

“Oh,” Mike says softly, surprised. “So you saw me and –”

Richie nods. “Look, I don’t care. Obviously I don’t care. I hope he told her, because she is really great, but other than that it’s not like I’m _offended_.” He chuckles, weakly.

Mike recovers well, and smiles. “Yeah, we kind of got our talk out of the way earlier. He did tell her, and they seem to have gotten past it, which is good.”

Richie smiles. “That’s our boy. Makes some questionable choices, but his heart’s in the right place.”

He feels a sudden pang of worry, and looks at Mike. “Not that you’re a – but y’know, more the whole – well I guess I can’t talk –”

Mike holds his hand up again as he blows out smoke, shaking his head. “No, I’m not offended - it was definitely a questionable choice. For both of us.”

Richie nods, and isn’t going to say it. He keeps it in his mouth with the smoke. But then he blows out, and smiles, a little ruefully. “I know – I _know,_ I’m not the centre of the universe, no matter what I act like,” he chuckles, and Mike chuckles too. He looks out at the darkened front yard. “But you have no idea how weird it is for me to have spent our whole childhoods thinking it was just me, and then finding out it’s damn near all of us? I feel like I just – missed _so fuckin’ much_, somehow.”

Mike nods, looking thoughtful. “No, I get you.” He looks at Richie. “I think we all tended to get wrapped up in our own dramas sometimes. That’s normal teenage shit. I mean, hell, I didn’t know about Bill until…” He trails off, but Richie very much remembers.

“Yeah. Life is weird, huh?” Richie finds himself saying, simply.

“Very weird,” Mike laughs.

“Worked out in the end, though,” Richie adds, and Mike chuckles.

“I certainly hope it’s not the end,” he points out, and Richie laughs.

They smoke in comfortable silence for another few moments.

Richie watches him. “I forgot you smoke.”

Mike blows out, holding the cigarette between his fingers. “Not usually. Trying to quit. It’s been a stressful weekend.”

Richie chuckles, heavy with understanding. “Fair enough.”

He looks at Mike, with a small smirk. “So. You and Stan, huh?”

Mike laughs. “Yes. Were you surprised?”

Richie grins. “Initially, yeah. But I think about it, and I’m not so surprised. You were always both huge nerds.”

Mike laughs again, mock-indignant. “Well, it was hard to feel surprised about you and Eddie. All the pigtail-pulling with you two, oy.”

Richie snorts. “Ok, I deserved that. But you’re already spending too much time with Stan, you’re starting to sound like an old Jewish man.”

Mike laughs.

Richie looks at him. “Believe me, I’m fuckin’ _aware_ that letter wasn’t mine to read, but it was – I’m not classy enough to enjoy his pretentious literary references, but l just thought, fuck, he was really in love with you.” He pauses, stubs his cigarette out. “_Is_ in love with you.”

Mike smiles softly, around his cigarette. He breathes out. “Yeah, I can’t believe it. I was too, just as much, if not more. Am, currently.”

Richie chances a difficult question. “How could you have that – and let it go? Not like, fuckin’, morally, but like, I don’t think I could have been that strong with Eddie?”

Mike looks thoughtful, takes a drag, breathes out. “I didn’t _want _to. But I also didn’t want to ruin his life, you know? Not like – ” he amends quickly, at the look on Richie’s face. “Not by being with him, I never cared about that shit. More just – dooming him to a years-long, long-distance thing. Something that might end, painfully and distantly. Worse, robbing him of what he might find on his own. And that – that’s something I don’t regret. He was able to have a happy life for most of the last two decades, and he got to be in love with someone amazing. I’d never begrudge him that.”

Richie considers this. “You were seriously so, like, mature, even then. I’m forty years old, and I feel like I’ve still got this horny, bad-judgement teenage idiot brain,” he laughs.

Mike laughs, dipping his head. “I mean, I think I had that too. I think I just hid it better?”

“I don’t believe it,” Richie says, shaking his head.

Mike points to the side of the house, at the second floor window where Stan’s childhood bedroom was. “Nearly broke my arm having to scramble out of that window, and down that pipe when Stan’s parents got home early from the synagogue, and we were upstairs making out. How’s that for horny, bad-judgement teenage idiot brain?”

Richie laughs. “Oh my god, that’s amazing. Yeah, I’m going to tease Stan about that, definitely.”

Mike laughs. “Oh no!”

They’re still laughing when they hear the door behind them.

“Is this where the cool kids are smoking?” Bill asks, smirking.

“Yeah, so you’d better leave,” Richie snarks, and Bill flips him off.

“Move over, then,” Bev says to Richie, and he moves up to let them in, albeit with no shortage of grumbling.

Richie’s phone rings, and he looks at it. “Ah shit,” he says, and everyone looks at him, semi-worried. “It’s my manager. I’ve been dodging his calls. I should probably go and take it.”

Everyone looks mildly anxious, and Richie can’t help smirking a little when he realises why. “Play nice,” he says, and Bill flips him off again.

***

_Richie definitely knows too much_, Bill thinks. Stan probably told him about the Bev thing, too.

It’s not really Richie’s fault things are still a bit awkward. Well only in that he’s left them all without a buffer for the awkwardness.

Still, this might be good.

Bill gets his cigarettes out of his pants pocket and offers them to Bev and Mike in turn. Mike politely declines, but Bev takes one.

She holds it out for him to light now. He suddenly feels awkward looking at her, so he just focuses on lighting her cigarette.

He looks out at the big tree across the road, in the dark. He thinks maybe she and Mike are sharing a look, but he can’t tell for certain.

He breathes out, and looks back at them. “So, I’m… guessing you guys have talked since last night?” he asks, casually. 

Bev chuckles, and Mike grins. “Oh, but we have, William,” Bev says, knowingly.

He feels himself blushing, and puts his hands up defensively, cigarette between the fingers of his right hand. Mike and Bev look back at him, very interested in what he has to say.

He looks back at them. “I’m really sorry. To both of you. I know I kind of acted a bit crazy last night, and I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

Mike softens, and Bev sighs. “And here I was all ready to give you shit for that for AT LEAST another few minutes,” she says, elbowing him lightly.

Bill grins, sheepishly.

“I mean, it was definitely weird to hear that you went for Mike right after me,” Bev continues, grinning.

“Yeah, man, way to make a guy feel special,” Mike adds, teasing. “Seconds to his sister, c’mon.”

“Ok, ok, again, I’m sorry! I’m the worst, I know,” Bill says, putting his hands up. He takes another drag. A horrible thought occurs to him, and he frowns. “You have to believe me, guys, I didn’t know Audra’s news until this morning. I wouldn’t have – ” 

Mike and Bev nod seriously. He appreciates that they’ll give him shit, but they know when to stop.

Bev pats his arm. “Of course not,” she says, kindly.

Mike smiles at him, eyes twinkling in the gloom. 

There’s a pause between them all. “I think I’m going to quit smoking,” Mike says. “I mean, I’ve been doing it for ages, but I need a better outlet for my stress.”

“You could take up kick-boxing?” Bev suggests, only a little tongue-in-cheek. He shoulder-checks her lightly, and she grins. She breathes out. “Actually, I agree. I wanna quit. I think I never did to spite Tom, but…” her smile becomes softer. “Don’t need to do that now.”

Bill looks at her. She’s looked happier tonight than the whole weekend. He hasn’t seen her bare her arms the whole time she’s been here, and he knows it’s not just because it’s cold on the porch. But the way Ben looks at her – the way he’s always looked at her, Bill supposes that he just couldn’t or didn’t want to see – makes Bill feel like she’s going to be alright. Way more than alright.

“Ben’s amazing, isn’t he? I mean, he always had the ideas, the brains, but he really made it happen. I’m really proud of him,” Bill says, genuinely. Bev smiles, surprised. “I can’t think of a better, kinder guy for you,” he adds.

“And you know I approve,” Mike adds, and Bev laughs.

“Thanks, guys,” she says, stubbing her cigarette out and kicking the butt away.

Bill looks across at Mike. “And, not to potentially make things weird again, but – I think you made the right call.”

Bev raises an eyebrow. Mike coughs a laugh. “Thanks, Bill. No offense, but I think so too.”

Bill chuckles. “Fully agree.” He pauses. “I wouldn’t have tried – if I’d known about you guys, you know? I wouldn’t do that to him. I mean, I’m – fucking overjoyed that he’s happy, the way he looks at you? The way you look at him? I’m just so happy I didn’t nearly - stop that for you. You’re both too important to me.”

Bill stubs his cigarette, and throws it out, and is suddenly aware of Bev’s arms encircling him from his side, and then a heaviness he assumes is Mike hugging both him and Bev. He lets out a startled laugh, and then everyone is laughing.

“Mike and I are going to be amazing at being aunt and uncle to this baby, isn’t that right, Mike?” Bev says when Mike releases them, only releasing Bill’s arms enough to throw her arms around both him and Mike, pulling them closer to her.

“Oh yeah,” Mike says. “It’s going to know SO many obscure historical facts. Get an edge on the other kids in school.”

They all laugh.

Bill sighs, looking out the darkened yard. “I really don’t want to go home yet. I’m going to miss you guys too much.”

Bev makes a protesting noise. “You’re not leaving tonight, though, right?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, but it’ll probably be tomorrow or the day after. Movie’s not going to be held up forever, and I’ve finished the script. Besides, I want to go back with Audra.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. Even though we’ll miss you like crazy,” Mike says. “I didn’t think we’d get you forever. But make sure Stan knows when you’re planning to leave.”

Bill nods. “Of course. Haven’t forgotten why I’m here.” He smiles at Mike. “Although, I’m a lot less anxious about leaving him now. I think he’ll be ok.”

Bev grins at Mike too. “Yeah. Although we’re all just a call away.”

Mike smiles widely. “Thanks guys. Oh man, it’s going to be so weird to go back to school tomorrow.”

He and Bev laugh, but not unkindly.

“Can we go back inside now? It’s _cold._” Bev says, zipping her jacket shut.

Bill laughs. “Thank God! I wanted to say something, but I thought you’d tease me about going soft in L.A.”

“Oh, you definitely did, but I’d never hold that against you,” Mike teases, grinning and getting to his feet.

***

Audra leans against the car window, warm and happy. It’s fogged up, but even if she could see through it, it’d be dark. She kind of likes the feeling. Ever since she was a kid, she can remember the feeling of being safe and warm in a car driving through an unknown night. You could pretend you were anywhere in the world, and for a while you could’ve been. Although the car was never as nice as this one. Mostly, you were praying the heat didn’t fail when it was thirty degrees outside. She’s gotten a rude shock coming back to a state that actually does seasons, after years in California, but she’s not totally forgotten New Mexico winters.

“Hey baby, how are you going? We’ll be home soon,” Bill asks gently, from the driver’s seat.

She smiles at him, surveying him from the window. “Good,” she says, and yawns. “I didn’t realise it had gotten so late. Although I did enjoy the movie.”

Bill chuckles, affectionately, and shakes his head. “Can’t believe you’d never seen _The Goonies._”

“Again, I was two years old, so I don’t think I would’ve remembered going to the cinema,” she defends, with a laugh.

“We were _obsessed _with it, it’s what made me obsessed with exploring town. Trying to find buried treasure,” he says, and his smile fades a little. “Didn’t find any treasure.” She leans over to put her hand on his leg, comfortingly.

He smiles at her, quietly grateful.

She smiles, and then leans back in her seat. “I’m really glad you’re in touch with these people again. I can tell they love you, a lot.”

“Yeah, well. I love them a lot,” Bill says, honestly. He looks at her for a moment. “So, you liked them, then?”

She chuckles, and nods. “I mean, they’re definitely weird. Much like you.”

Bill chuckles. “Can’t argue with that. People here thought that too.”

She shakes her head. “Not in a bad way, I really like them! I just didn’t expect that _all _of them would reveal they’d secretly paired off the first night I met most of them properly. And I thought we’d be the only ones with news.” She chuckles. “Although I’m happy for Richie. Eddie seems to…balance him out.”

Bill laughs. “Or encourage him, either one. But I am too. I’m glad he’s happier with himself.”

“Me too,” Audra says, affectionately, thinking privately that she’d never seen him so comfortable, the few times she’d met him before. He’d always seemed desperate to fill the space up, to be funny, to make a show. Which could be hilarious – but it wasn’t anything like tonight.

She thinks, looking for the words. “But it’s like – I have a lot more context now. For you. I like it.”

He looks at her, strangely, then smiles warmly. “I’m glad you’re here.”

She smiles back. “I’m glad I’m here too.”

Neither of them says anything for a while, but it’s a comfortable silence.

“Can you put something on my phone? I’m falling asleep,” Bill asks after a while.

She goes into his phone, and looks for his music. She smiles, surprised, going through the library. “Aw, I didn’t know you had Lucinda on here?”

He chuckles again, softly. “Reminds me of you. I listen to it when you’re shooting somewhere out of state and I miss you.” There’s something very wistful about his voice

She looks at him, unexpectedly moved. “I feel like I should tell you to stop buttering me up, but…that was very sweet and, well, I don’t want us to crash. But prepare to get soundly kissed when you’re not operating heavy machinery.”

He smirks. “Noted.”

She chooses something.

“Not a day goes by, I don’t think about you,” she sings softly, looking out the windscreen into the darkness. “You left your mark on me, it’s permanent, a tattoo.”

“I like your voice,” Bill says, softly, like he’s not sure if he should. “You should sing more.”

She smiles. “More than just in the shower?” she jokes. “Thanks, baby.”

She thinks about his friends. She can’t quite imagine what it’s like for them all, what they’d been through – but meeting them, she was suddenly way less hurt at the idea that he’d turned to one (or two) of them for comfort – maybe they were all a little in love with each other. Even though it’d been so long, they understood each other in a kind of strange, unbreakable way. Bill was more himself around them than she’d ever seen him. Maybe that was what shared trauma did to people – made them a little weird, a little inaccessible at times, but bonded them to each other irrevocably.

She puts her hand on her stomach, and thinks about how much love this baby already has. She smiles to herself, and feels like they’re going to be ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that might seem like the end but I also wrote a whole-ass epilogue (it was meant to be like, three scenes but you're probably aware of my tendancy to go on, at this point!) that I'll try to have up a lot sooner after I get it back from my lovely and talented beta :)) thanks for supporting this one so far, feel free to tell me what you think, but either way thanks for coming this far :D


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi all! last little bit i'm finally getting up here, so i hope you enjoy it, and i hope you're staying safe wherever you are :D 
> 
> i don't usually post links in the before comments but in this case, it might help your imagination to have them - 
> 
> this is stan's jumper (a million years i got sent this on tumblr but of course you can't SEARCH tumblr messages, so I've never been able to find it again but like - this jumper but in a man size:
> 
> https://i.ebayimg.com/images/g/jbAAAOSwr6FaIt4N/s-l640.jpg)
> 
> ben's house is a combination of two harry gesner houses - 
> 
> it looks like this, the wave house:   
https://athomeinhollywood.com/2019/07/07/malibu-wave-house-yesterday/
> 
> but the location is more on the hillside like the eagle's watch house (+ pool)  
https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/3156442?source_impression_id=p3_1592658159_RQ%2Fbge2dqs8m7X3x&guests=1&adults=1   
(you can STAY HERE if you have two grand a night to drop, apparently)
> 
> ben's dog is named after frank gehry not frank lloyd wright (fallingwater can bite me, i said what i said architects!) but i'm just putting this fact here because i didn't have room to put it into the fic :)

_ December 2016 _

Stan’s phone goes off on the nightstand. He gets up, swinging his legs off the bed and onto the ground. 

He grabs for the phone quickly, then, noticing the caller name, watches the screen for a moment before answering. 

“Hey,” he starts, warmly.

“Hey, Stan. If you’re in the middle of something let me know, I just wanted to – check in with you. Y’know. Like I do.” 

He smiles. “No, by all means – I just thought you were going to call later?”

“Is it not 1pm where you are?” she asks, confused. 

“No, it’s 10am,” he says, smiling more. Can’t help it. 

She groans. “Oh, I’m so dumb, you’re on your holiday, right, time zones. I can call you later if you’re busy, it’s fine.” 

“No, no, isn’t it like 7pm already? I can talk. For a bit,” he says, warmly. It’s a strange thing, but he supposes it hurts slightly less now. Like a scabbed-over wound. Not gone, but healing. 

“Alright, great.” She says, sounding happier. She pauses, breathes out. 

“It’s good to hear your voice, Pats,” he says, honestly. 

He can imagine her smile even if he can’t see it. “Yeah, it’s so good to hear yours, Stan.” She pauses. “You sound good. Happier. I’m glad you’re seeing your friends.” 

He looks at his shoes. “Thanks. Me too,” he says, slow and happy. “Can’t wait to see them again.” 

“Your party’s tonight, right?” 

He smiles. “Yeah. I’ve gotta say, I’m curious about Richie’s house. Given his fashion taste, I worry about his interior decoration. I  _ will  _ have to punch him if he’s got, like, a Delorean in one of his rooms.” 

Patty laughs. “The comedian, right? I vaguely remember him, he had some – loud shirts.” He chuckles. “I guess you’ll really get to see how the other half lives. Say hi to Eddie for me. And Bill,” she says, warmly. “And Mike, of course.” 

There’s something in her voice – not unpleasant at all, but strange – and he wants to find a way to say it, opens his mouth to try but can’t seem to find the words. It’s not like he wants to rub it in her face, but it’s starting to feel weird not telling her. They don’t talk all that much lately, anyway, but they talk about their lives a little bit, and he’s cutting a big part of his life now out by not telling her. 

But how is he supposed to say that? What if she thinks he’s deliberately trying to hurt her, like,  _ well guess how I’m thriving now? How do you like these apples?  _

“Of course, will do,” he says, slightly too quickly.

“Thanks,” she says, warmly. 

He hears a voice in the background. It’s accented – something vaguely of Scandinavian, polished, and certainly a man’s voice. Stan’s sure he heard him say  _ darling _ , but maybe he’s imagining it. 

There’s a silence on the line. “You heard that, didn’t you?” she says, uncomfortably. 

“Yeah,” he says, simply. Unsure of how to process that right now. 

She sighs, guiltily. “God, Stan, I’m so sorry. This isn’t how I – I wasn’t sure if I should tell you, or if it would set you back…” she says, pained. “I wasn’t trying to lie to you though, I swear, I just didn’t know how to say…” 

“So, you’re dating?” he says, processing. 

“Yes,” she says, in a small voice. 

“What’s his name?” he asks, not unkindly. 

“Uh –” Patty starts. “Elias.” 

“Danish?” 

“Swedish,” she corrects, slowly. 

“So, he’s, uh, with the WHO?”

“Yeah, he’s one of the researchers here,” Patty says, slowly again. “I’m sorry, this is so – I never wanted to hurt you - ” she says, sounding like she might cry.

He takes a breath. He feels, oddly, like a weight’s been lifted off his chest, flooded with strange relief. There’s a part of him that still hurts to hear it obviously – maybe that will always be there – but it’s not screaming anymore. “No, no, Patty, please, I’m not – You haven’t hurt me, I’m not mad. Not that I really have the – please don’t be upset, I think that’s –  _ amazing _ ,” he says, smiling. Genuinely happy, even though his eyes are a little watery. 

“You don’t have to protect me, Stan,” Patty says, still sounding miserable.

“I will always want to protect you, Patty,” he says, honestly. “But I’m not doing it now, ok? Because –” he says, and takes a breath. “I wasn’t sure if I could tell you this, it felt weird but I guess – well, I know yours now, I should tell you…”

“You’re dating someone?” Patty asks, almost surprised, but unmistakably more sweet than bitter about it. 

“Yep,” he says, heart beating a little faster than he’d like. 

“Is it one of your friends?” she asks, curious but gentle. 

“Uh, yeah…” he replies, surprised. 

“Is it Mike?” she asks, kindly, like the weirdest game of  _ Guess Who  _ he’s ever played. 

He breathes. “Wow, that’s crazy that you just – yes, yes it is.” He pauses. “How’d you know?” 

She chuckles, just slightly. “I didn’t know. You’ve just – sounded some kind of way when you mention him. And he’s been so kind to you, when you came back to Maine. I’ve always known that he had a lot of love for you, even if I wasn’t sure how to read it.” 

Stan nods, smiling, feeling strange about this. “So, you knew how he felt?” 

“No, again, I wouldn’t say  _ knew.  _ I just…I guess I recognise what it looks like when someone has a lot of love and affection for you.” 

He sniffs, smiling and taking his glasses off to wipe his eyes. 

“Ah, Pats,” he says, and sighs. “And you’re happy?” 

“Well, you know, it’s not always – ” she hedges, and then he coughs, and she says, “Yes, I am. Mostly. But yeah, I am.” She sounds filled up with it, trying not to sound like she is, but not that good at hiding it. He remembers how it looks on her.

He smiles, genuinely. “I’m…I know this could sound fake, but I couldn’t be any more sincere – I’m so happy you’re happy, Pats. It makes me feel like…everything that happened, it wasn’t – it was worth it.” He sniffs again. 

She sniffs too. “And Mike makes you happy?” she asks, sounding glad in the same way he is. A little bittersweet, but mostly just relieved, happy that he can stop worrying so much. 

He smiles more. “Yeah, he does. He’s a really…kind guy.” 

“I remember,” she says. She pauses. “Can you do something for me, Stan?” 

“Anything for you.”

There’s a smile in her voice, weighted as it is. “Can you say thanks for me? He kind of…stepped in to save you, when I couldn’t. I feel like I owe him so much,” she says, voice kind of choked, but with what seem like grateful tears. 

“I will,” he says, seriously, voice getting tight himself. “But please don’t feel guilty, I’m crazy proud of what you’re doing over there. And I’m glad you have someone, now that I can’t – ” He sighs. “I’m not saying this to make things weird, but I just have to say it once more to you, and then I’ll never say it again…I love you, Patty. I’m glad you’re happy.” 

She lets out a strange half-sob-chuckle. “I love you too, Stan. And I am  _ so  _ glad you’re happy.”

“Thanks, Patty,” he says, and sniffles. “But I should probably go.”

“Right, right, of course,” she says. “It’s almost dinner here anyway.” 

“Right, yeah,” he says. 

“Happy Hannukah, Stan,” she says, warmly. 

He smiles. “Happy Hannukah, Patty.” 

He hangs up, and flops back on the bed. It’s a weird feeling. No less than a month ago, this news would’ve definitely sent him into a spiral, even if he was happy – and he might have even been angry at her. But he feels strangely light and happy, knowing she’s not miserable over there. Even without him. 

Mike gets out of the shower, and walks out of the bathroom and up to his side of the bed. “Why are hotel towels so nice and fluffy? What do they do? It can’t just be fabric softener, right?”

He has one of the hotel’s big white towels wrapped around his waist. No matter how many times he’s seen this sight – or one similar – in the last month, it never fails to make him a little dry mouthed. 

Mike looks at him, smiling but searching. “Are you alright? I heard your voice, did you get a call?”

He smiles. “Yeah, I’ll tell you later. It’s distracting how good you look in a towel, do you know that?”

Mike smirks. “You think I should start a new trend?” 

Stan nods. “Oh yeah. It’ll become all the rage here. The movie stars will all start wearing it.” 

Mike laughs, and leans down. “Oh yeah?”

Stan grins. “Yeah. You’ll probably get mistaken for one. How does a history teacher maintain a six-pack? You’re forty, stop embarrassing the rest of us!” 

Mike laughs again, nuzzling his nose against Stan’s. “Well, I used to have a lot of free time,” he says, softly. “Get used to my complacent pot belly.”

Stan chuckles. “Perfect,” he says, and kisses him. 

***

It’s been a busy day for Eddie, getting Richie’s place ready for guests. Making the turkey, with Richie ‘helping’ – mostly an excuse for him to steal bites of things and joke around. It’s super annoying. Eddie’s missed it like crazy. Like he was holding his breath for so long, he forgot how good it felt to breathe normally. 

“That cake looks  _ good,  _ Eds, is that what we’re having for dessert?” Richie says, leaning on his kitchen island, reaching over to the cake. 

Eddie smacks his hand away. “Touch it and I’ll murder you and bury you in your own garden.” 

Richie laughs. “What are you going to say when everyone gets here? They’ll notice I’m not in my own  _ house _ , Eds.” 

“One thing about doing my  _ extremely boring grown-up job _ , is that you get really good at judging how you might pull of the perfect murder, so don’t test me,” Eddie says, pointing the knife he’s using to chop veggies at Richie menacingly. 

Richie looks at him, just smiling, like he often does now – deeply affectionate and somewhat disbelieving of his own luck. Eddie has to avoid being overwhelmed by that feeling all the time. He still can’t believe he gets to be here, it’s so new. 

After getting back to his house – in a sensible, quiet street in the suburbs – it took him roughly three days to realise he hated the suburbs, and his house, and, well, he didn’t  _ hate _ Myra, exactly - their problems hadn’t all been hers - but he’d been planning to wait a little before telling her. But she kept going on and on about how he’d been away for so long – it had been a week or so at the outside – and he barely called her, and was he having a nervous breakdown? And he’d just ended up telling her. 

It had taken four more days in a hotel room in the city, looking at possible apartments to rent, trying to get into the swing of work again and thinking only of when he could call Richie next, before he’d found himself walking into his boss’ office and politely but firmly laying out a case for a transfer to the Los Angeles office, because it was  _ vital.  _ He’d half expected them to say no and fire him on the spot. But he had worked very hard for them over the last decade-and-change, he supposes. They agreed, and he had – in the same sort of fugue state he’d been in telling Myra and talking to his boss – found himself outside Richie’s stupid too-modern house. 

He’s been living here for a few weeks now. 

“I know you didn’t mean it that way, but that was  _ incredibly  _ hot, Eds,” Richie says, leering at him. He shouldn’t find it hot, and yet – Richie leans in and he leans forward, and then very close to Richie’s lips. 

“Either make yourself useful and help, or go away,” he whispers, and pulls back.

“Oh, your heart is ice-cold, Spaghetti!” Richie says, clutching at his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “Ok, ok, I won’t touch the precious cake that you love more than me.”

“Scram!” Eddie says, losing the battle not to smile. “Also, it’s a torte, asshole, give me a little credit. It’s a Christmas dessert for eight people, I’m not just going to bake a cake.”

“Ooh, say torte again,” Richie says, coming up behind him and nuzzling his neck. It’s an effort to not drop the knife immediately and accidentally cut off one of their toes as well. 

“I’m holding a knife, Richie,” he tries, weakly attempting annoyance, foiled by the fact he is definitely smiling now. 

“I know, very sexy,” Richie teases, kissing down his neck and shoulder. “Also, it’s December 18 th , for the record.”

“I  _ know  _ that,” Eddie says crossly, putting the knife down and turning around to kiss him. It still doesn’t feel real, that he gets to just do that. “Now, will you stop distracting me? Everyone will be here soon, and I’ve gotta get this finished and ready.” 

“Absolutely,” Richie says, and goes in for another kiss. “I’m going now,” he says, and kisses him again. 

“Richie!” he half-protests, a little hypocritically he has to admit, because he also keeps kissing Richie.

The doorbell goes. Richie laughs. “God, saved by the bell.”

Eddie sighs, resting his head against Richie’s and smiling. “You better get that, then. Tell them I’ll be five minutes.”

“Alright, Eds,” Richie says, taking one more look at him and then sauntering out of the kitchen like he’s walking on air.

*

Richie opens the door grinning. “My old friends! It’s been so long!” 

Stan raises an eyebrow. “We saw you yesterday.” 

“Don’t care, it’s been too long already,” he shushes Stan, throwing his arms around both his and Mike’s necks and pulling them to him. 

Stan makes a noise of protest, but Mike just chuckles. “It’s good to see you  _ today _ , Richie,” Mike says, when he lets them go. “Merry Christmas-slash-Hannukah!”

“Back atcha Mike, Merry Christmas-slash-Hannukah!” Richie says, welcoming them into the house. He turns to Stan. “Why can’t you find me winsome and charming like he does?” 

“Because he’s nicer than me?” Stan deadpans, catching Mike’s eye and smiling a little. 

Mike holds up the little brown bag he’s carrying. “Where should I put the wine?” 

“Also, where’s Eddie?” Stan asks. 

Richie grins. “Allow me to answer both your questions at once and say, in the kitchen.” 

Mike smiles. “I’ll go put it in there and say hi, then.”

“Good man,” Richie says after him, and watches Stan’s little smile.

“You’re such a sap,” Richie says, smirking.

Stan raises his eyebrows. “Wow,  _ I’m  _ a sap? You forget already what I had to put up with from you? You haven’t stopped grinning since we’ve been here.” 

Richie chuckles. “Fair. Maybe we’re both saps?” 

Stan smiles. “I guess that’s an acceptable compromise.” 

He does look happier. He looks like so much more of a person than he had just a month earlier. The first time Richie had seen him again in the restaurant it had been a shock. He’d been so pale and exhausted-looking, like how he used to get around finals but like, a fuckton worse than that.

“Come here, I’ve got you something,” Richie says, beckoning him to the living room. Stan follows, looking faintly suspicious. Well, old habits die hard.

“So, you know you have to explain this tree now, right?” Stan says, stopping in the middle of the room and cocking his head to the side looking at it. 

Richie laughs and looks at it proudly. “Well, Eddie and I have different design philosophies, when it comes to decorating.” 

Stan shakes his head, looking like he doesn’t know whether to be appalled or amused, but is fighting against the latter. “I remember the headaches you used to give me fighting about it.” 

Richie laughs again. “We compromised – I said he could make sure all the levels had an equal number of decorations, and that we would only use warm yellow lights, if I could use a lot of the mismatched and novelty ones I’ve collected over the years.” 

Stan’s smirk breaks free. “I bet that was a struggle for him.” 

“Oh yeah. I like to think of it as a moment of growth. Aversion therapy.” He grins. “Maybe that can be my new career, being a therapist. I could come work with you, what do you say?” 

Stan pales a little. “Not even as a joke, Richie.” 

Richie laughs. “Noted.” 

Stan looks at him. “You’re not quitting comedy, are you?” 

Richie shrugs, not quite looking at him. Kind of wishing he hadn’t brought it up. “I don’t know man. I don’t think I can keep on like this, and I’m not exactly a hot property now that everyone thinks I had some kind of drug-related breakdown.” 

Stan sighs. “Jesus. Who’s saying that?” 

Richie looks at him, smiling ruefully. “Be glad you don’t have Twitter.” He shakes his head. “Whatever, man, it’s not important right now. It’s Christmukkah!” 

Stan looks at him, blankly. “Did you come up with that?” 

Richie feigns shock. “Did I ever? You never watched iconic 2003 teen drama  _ The O.C _ ?” 

Stan narrows his eyebrows. “Did I watch a teen drama when I was… 27?” 

Richie nods, sagely. “Season one of that? Amazing. I felt like the main two guys reminded me of us – you, a nerdy Jewish kid,” The edge of Stan’s lip quirks up. “Me, a sexy bad boy type from the wrong side of the tracks.” 

Stan grins. “See, you can’t give up on comedy.” 

Richie laughs. “Alright, let me get your gift.” 

“I think we’re supposed to save them for when everyone’s here, Rich,” Stan warns. 

Richie waves a hand. “This isn’t your Christmas present, so it doesn’t count.” 

He ducks under the tree, and grabs a present. 

Stan hesitates. “You shouldn’t have bought me two things, Rich. I feel bad.” 

Richie waves this off again, pushing it into Stan’s arms. “Call it your Hannukah gift, and it’s not anything special, so don’t freak out. I just saw it randomly and thought you’d get a kick out of it.” 

Stan gives him a frustrated, affectionate look, and then focuses on the wrapping paper. 

“So did Eddie do most of the ones under the tree?” Stan asks casually, eyes flicking to the neatly wrapped packages and back. 

“How’d you know?” Richie asks, feigning naivety. 

Stan grins, and then his mouth drops open as he regards the thing he’s unwrapped with confusion. “Is this –“ 

“Yes! I know how much you value a good Hannukah sweater,” Richie says, grinning from ear to ear.

Stan looks at it in wonder, and starts laughing. Richie laughs too. He looks at Richie. “This might be the best one I’ve ever seen. The combination of 80s pop music and Judaism is too much for me to cope with.” 

“Put it on then!” Richie asks. 

Stan laughs. “Right away, of course!” 

He pulls the jumper over his head. It’s a blue knitted sweater with a typical holiday pattern (albeit more stars of David than just stars) but it also has the words “You Spin Me Right Round Baby” knitted in white on the front, encircling a dreidel. It’s ridiculous, and Richie had bought it on the spot. 

“Now we’re terrible holiday sweater buds!” Richie says, happily. 

“Ah, that’s why you made Mike wear one too. Very crafty.” Stan says, and smiles at him. “Fucking hell - come on and give me a hug then.” 

Richie laughs and goes to hug him. One might assume that Stan, with his fastidious clothes and muted-fashion sense would hate a thing like that sweater; but Richie’s known him long enough to remember how many ugly Hannukah sweaters he had in his closet, given to him by his mom and grandma, which he took a strange kind of affection and pride in. 

Richie lets him go. “At the risk of being too sappy this early in the night, it’s really good to see you, Stanislaus.” 

Stan raises an eyebrow, still smiling. “You saw me yesterday.” 

“It was good to see you then too,” Richie says, shrugging. 

Stan looks down for a moment and back. “Thanks, Rich. I’m glad I’m getting to see you this much, too.” 

“Alright, enough of this emotional honesty nonsense!” Richie says, grinning. “Let’s go out on the back deck, I can show you Eddie’s terrible rowing machine that I fear out of a healthy respect.” 

Stan chuckles. “A rowing machine? And he jogs? He’s not got abs, too, does he?” He shakes his head.

Richie gasps. “Mike has them too? I suspected, but like, he teaches teens history, he’s not allowed to be ripped!” 

Stan laughs. “I know, that’s what I said!”

Richie shakes his head. “What the fuck, we’re supposed to be at an age where it’s acceptable to let that go. We might be the only sane ones.” 

“Maybe, Rich.” 

***

“Too busy to come and greet your friends?” Mike says, sticking his head around the door to the kitchen. 

Eddie looks up, brow furrowed, but breaks into a smile seeing him. “If I didn’t have to do all this on my  _ own _ , I would have definitely come out to see you.”

Mike grins. “Richie was no help, then?” 

Eddie gives him a long-suffering look. “You’re confusing your mature, competent adult partner with mine. I’m dating a manchild with ADHD.”

“You love it,” Mike teases. “Like you’d trust him or anyone else with preparing your Christmas dinner.” 

Eddie breaks into another smile, and nods. “Ok, I give, yes.” 

Mike looks around. “Nice kitchen to do it in, if you have to.” 

Eddie nods, and gives Mike a strange look. “Feels kind of weird. Like, I love working in it, but I’m not used to being here yet. Not like I feel unhappy here, cause I’ve never been happier but …still getting used to my life now, if that makes sense?”

Mike nods, smiling understandingly. “Yeah, it does…At least you were able to come and just live here. I’m…trying not to think about when we get everything with the house squared away, and Stan has to go back to Atlanta. I’ve kind of gotten used to him being around.”

Eddie looks at him, sympathetic. “Do you think that’ll be soon?”

Mike sighs, half-smiling still. “It’ll have to be sooner rather than later, I guess. He co-owns the clinic and he’s close with his staff, so they’ve been very supportive of him taking leave but he’ll still need to go back at some point. And I think he feels bad making his patients change therapists for the time being, therapy’s a delicate thing. And he’ll have to figure out what he’s going to do with the house, and I don’t really think he’s going to ask me to move there.” 

“Why not?” Eddie asks, surprised. “It’s not like he’s waiting for anyone else. You’re it.” 

Mike looks at him, curiously, and waits a beat. “If you’d kept the house in New York, would you have wanted to live there with Richie?”

Mike watches Eddie’s face fall as the thought occurs to him. “No… I get what you’re saying. But I think you’ll figure it out.” 

“Yeah. Somehow.” It’s not even like he’d be mad about it, but the fact is that once this temporary respite from life is over, Stan will have to decide some things about the future. As long as they’re together though, even if it’s not physically right away, Mike will be able to live with it. He looks down. “I just don’t want to pressure him into more big life choices, you know? He’s had enough of that recently.” 

Eddie shrugs, and looks at him simply. “I don’t think it’ll feel like a painful choice, if it’s with you. I mean granted, I took a more reckless path than is at all usual for me. But none of it mattered as much as getting here did. I think Stan will want to get back to you as soon as possible, once he’s back in Atlanta.” 

Mike looks at him, grateful. “Ah, Eddie, that’s actually really…helpful, thanks.” 

Eddie smiles. “I’m occasionally good for advice.” 

Mike sighs, and scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, I’m too sober and it’s too early to be telling you all this stuff. I don’t know where that all came from.” 

Eddie makes a dismissive noise. “Don’t apologise, I’m happy to talk to you. You’re always holding other people’s problems. And you’ll almost certainly end up with me ranting about work and my upcoming divorce later, so I’ll get you back. I see you’ve brought wine to facilitate that?” 

Mike smiles. “Yeah, fair enough. How are you going with that?”

Eddie shakes his head. “No, I’m far too sober right now. Show me the wine.” 

Mike leaves it for now, and holds up the wine. “It’s red. Pinot, I think? I’ve never had this one, but I think it’s from a local winery, and the label is cute, so I hope it’s good.” 

Eddie takes it, and looks at it. “No, I’ve heard this place is legitimately good. I was thinking about dragging Richie to tour the winery, if you guys want to come with?” 

Mike grins. “Richie’s going to  _ hate  _ it, but sure, I’m in. And I think Stan would love to go.” 

Eddie shrugs, putting the wine on the counter behind him. “Well, he might be bored on the tour, but there is a wine-tasting, so if I mention the free alcohol he’ll probably suck it up long enough to get there.” 

“Crafty, I like it,” Mike says.

Eddie grins, then looks at him like something’s occurred to him. “Wait, I haven’t even hugged you yet, what the fuck? Get over here!”

Mike laughs, and goes to hug him. “Thanks for having us, man.” 

“Are you kidding? You’re always welcome. It’s Richie’s house, but I guess I live here now so I’m allowed to say that,” Eddie says, letting him go. 

Mike laughs. “Damn right. You did that.” 

Eddie grins, a special, pleased, almost surprised kind of grin. “I did, didn’t I?”

“So, how goes the movie biz, Mr Hollywood?” Richie asks, raising an eyebrow at Bill.

“Oh,  _ I’m  _ Mr. Hollywood? Look at this place!” Bill retorts. 

“Don’t try to play me, Bill, I’ve seen  _ your  _ house, I’m surprised you don’t have a butler!” 

“Bite me, Richie, I’ve seen your car. You don’t get more L.A. than a standup comedian who drives that car.” 

Richie puts a hand to his heart, mock offended. “Oh now I’m more  _ L.A  _ than you? At least I don’t drink green smoothies!”

Stan grins, watching them. Having eaten dinner, they’ve all gathered in Richie’s ridiculously huge living room. It’s the first time he’s gotten to see everyone together since they left Maine. Even though it’s only been a few weeks, he’s missed them – feeling their absence much more strongly now he remembers what it’s like to be around them again, amplified by years of distance.

Everyone is looking ridiculously coupley and loved-up, and he’d be feeling pretty bitter about it right nowif he wasn’t  _ also  _ feeling ridiculously loved-up and coupley himself. He leans back into Mike’s arms a little. Richie’s couch is very comfortable. He looks back to Richie and Bill. “Hey kids, stop bickering. Bill, I’m  _ actually _ interested to know how the film is going?” 

“I’m not – ” Bill protests, then falters at the look Stan gives him. “Ok, right, the film. So, we just wrapped shooting, as you  _ probably  _ recall? Thank God.” He grins, self-deprecatingly.

“You might have mentioned it once or twice before?” Bev chimes in, nonchalant. 

“You _might_ have blown up the group chat yelling about how glad you were that, and I quote, ‘Sweet merciful Christ, shooting is fucking finished, I’m going to get _so _fucking drunk’, or something like that?” Richie adds, laughing.

“Hey!” Bill says, putting his hands up defensively, grinning all the while. “It was a great experience, but making a movie – especially the actual making of it – can also be a precarious, stressful, anxiety-creating business a lot of the time, so excuse me if I’m happy that I can breathe out again. Back me up here, Aud?” 

Audra looks at him and smiles, catlike and comfortable. “Ok, but only because I made a vow to you. And because you’re cute,” she says, and his smile widens. She looks at Richie. “I mean, I had – mostly – a really great experience making  _ The Attic Room _ . It was a really great, comfortable, fun cast and I know it’s a huge cliché it seems like I’d have to be lying, but the cast and crew, we really were like this big family. So I’m gonna miss that.” Audra smiles nostalgically. “But yeah, with every shoot, especially anything horror or sci-fi or whatever, there’s always a part where you’ve been shooting for so long, and you’re like  _ I’ve been covered in fake blood for like twelve hours now and I’m only wearing a camisole and jeans, I’m cold and tired and very ready for this to be over _ , you know? Except I couldn’t even get drunk after we wrapped, so, thanks for that, babe.” She laughs along with everyone else, even a red-faced Bill. 

“You’re braver than me, Audra. I couldn’t deal with being covered in fake blood for any amount of time, ugh,” Bev says, shuddering. Her tone is light, but Stan can see glint of real horror in her eyes. “Bill, how could you?” she chides him, with a smirk. 

_ The baby or the blood?  _ he thinks, but doesn’t say. Probably because neither her nor Richie are close enough to hear it said under his breath. 

Bill throws his hands up again. “It’s horror! It goes with the territory!”

Bev makes a dismissive noise. “Men covering women in blood in horror movies. You don’t have to tell me what that’s about.” 

Audra laughs and shares a knowing look with her. “Right?” 

Bill looks confused and suspicious, which makes Stan grin. 

“I’ll explain later, babe,” Audra teases. 

“So what happens now, Audra? Do you get to relax for a few months?” Ben asks, looking interested. “I’m sorry, I have no idea how it all works once you stop filming.” 

Audra smiles. “Yeah, I’ll get a break, and then the junket will start and it’ll be a lot of interviews and appearances for a few months.” 

Bill gives her an interesting look. Stan recognises it as the ‘we’ve talked about this before’ look married couples get. “I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to do so much promotion, because you’re gonna need rest right around that time,” Bill says, and pauses. “And the rest of the main cast can definitely pick up the slack for you.”

Audra returns his look, somewhat defiantly. “And I told you I didn’t want to do that. I won’t be  _ heavily  _ pregnant then, Bill. I wanna promote the thing we worked so hard on.” 

“I mean, of course I want you to promote it, it’s really important to me – but maybe just less? It’s just – it’s a stressful schedule for anyone who  _ isn’t  _ pregnant, you know?” Bill replies carefully. 

Stan catches Bev’s eye, and for a moment they’re caught in a moment of  _ is this going to be a thing,  _ but then Bill smiles at Audra, small and affectionate, and says, “I wouldn’t dare stop you, I just…want you to be safe. I worry. About both of you.”

Audra softens, smiling back.

“I suppose we can compromise. But if there’s any Buzzfeed-interview-while-playing-with-puppies, that’s MINE,” she says, with a giggle. 

Stan’s gaze flicks back to Bev, relieved. She seems to agree.

Audra looks back at him. “So, you guys are in LA for another four days? Shame we couldn’t do Christmas together this year.” 

“I know, why are you people all so busy and important?” Richie asks, wagging a finger at them all disapprovingly. 

“Hey, Rich, if you want to trade grading papers by teenagers who only half remember what you taught them this year for standup, you can have my very busy and important job,” Mike deadpans. Stan smirks, snuggling back into his chest. 

“Hey, the fact that seven adults managed to find a time to see each other in one place, for the second time in less than a month, is something I’m proud of,” Bill adds. “And this way we got in on the last night of Hannukah, too.”

Richie looks at him, grinning. “Hope you appreciate that I both found and lit all the candles on that menorah over there. I got you.” 

Stan sighs. “You really went above and beyond,” he says, drily. He softens. “But I appreciate it. I especially appreciate this sweater you gave me.”

“I  _ knew  _ there was a reason that you wanted me to wear one,” Mike adds to Richie, laughing. “But I like it.” He rubs Stan’s arm gently. His hand feels warm through the wool of the sweater, but maybe that’s just how he feels when Mike touches him, even casually like this. 

“It’s very cute that you match,” Bev says, and Stan grins at her. 

“I can’t get over that sweater, Stan, it’s magnificent,” Ben comments, completely unironically. He’d mentioned it when he’d arrived at Richie’s too. “Dead or Alive  _ and  _ Hannukah imagery? It might be the best holiday sweater I’ve ever seen.” 

“Thank-you, Ben, that’s what  _ I _ said!” he says, chuckling. “And to answer your question, Audra, before I was  _ rudely interrupted, _ ” he says, and Bill laughs. Richie flips them both the bird. “We’ve got some time this month now Mike’s on leave.” He turns to look at Mike, trying to convey the question without asking,  _ are you alright for me to say this? Do you want to?  _

Mike seems to get it anyway, and nods. 

“We’re thinking of visiting Florida before we go back to Maine,” Stan starts. “Maybe do a bit of a roadtrip. Not starting from here, obviously, that would take forever. But if we fly to New Orleans, we can dip down to Miami, and maybe back up and see some other cities on our way back to Maine. We always wanted to do a road trip before, and we’re not going to have a freer time to do it.” 

“That’s great, guys, where are you –?” Eddie starts. 

“Sorry, Eds, but there’s an elephant in the room that needs to be addressed,” Richie interrupts. 

“More like a bull in a China shop,” Eddie retorts grumpily. 

“Why in the ever living  _ hell  _ would you want to visit America’s sweaty buttcrack, also known as Florida?” Richie asks, to varied giggles and groans.

“You always wanted to go there, didn’t you Mike?” Ben says, nicely. 

“Yeah, I seem to remember it being brought up recently, is that why you’re going?” Bev adds. 

“You know there’s a whole world out there, Mikey. There are hot places to go that aren’t so full of guns and conservative old white people,” Richie half-jokes. “Miami’s cool, but it’s still not worth it.” 

Stan looks at Mike, who smiles at him, and nods. Stan slips his hand into his, easily. Mike looks back at everyone. 

“I, uh, actually do have ulterior motives for visiting Florida. Recently I – got a message from this young woman, and it turns out she was looking into her family history, and…” He falters slightly, and Stan squeezes his hand. Everyone is watching him curiously, a little worried. “Apparently her grandmother is my mother’s younger sister? They fell out of contact after my mom left Chicago with my dad, before I was born. So…” He looks down, swallows. Stan feels a spike of panic – what if he wasn’t ready to bring this up with everyone? But then Mike looks up, and his eyes are shining but he’s smiling like the warmest slant of sunlight. “So I have some new, well I guess not new, but new to me – family members. And I’m going to meet them really soon.”

Everyone looks almost in shock for a moment. Then they break into smiling and happy exclamations. 

Stan watches Mike beam at Bev, and her beaming back at him, a bit shiny-eyed herself. Mike had told her just a few days after he’d found out, and he’d only waited because he’d been afraid it might upset her, but she’d been overjoyed for him. It wasn’t until Stan had gotten to call her later that she’d admitted a moment of insecurity – real family who didn’t know you existed outdoes foster family who abandoned you for far too long – but she’d gotten over it quickly, remembering that he had so much room in his heart anyway, and he’d agreed and assured her Mike could never, and would never want to replace her.

“Well,  _ now _ I feel like an asshole, Mike,” Richie says, meekly. 

Mike smiles widely at him. “It’s ok, Richie, I’ve known you long enough that little you say without meaning actually bothers me.” 

“Oh so you’re just, completely unbothered then,” Richie says immediately, and everyone laughs.

“So, what are your plans for after we leave then, Rich?” Stan asks. “You guys going away anywhere?”

Richie throws a relaxed arm around Eddie, who grumbles, but doesn’t make any attempt to shrug him off. “Nope. Eds and I are finally going to have some time to chill out here and lose contact with the outside world. Y’know watch Netflix and eat takeout until we’re eventually buried under a mountain of Chinese containers, go out in a blaze of glory, that sort of thing.”

Eddie looks at him, half-annoyed and half-amused. “Ok, no, not quite,” He looks at the others. “I have been working a lot since I transferred to this office, but now I’ve got some time off, I’m looking forward to relaxing. Maybe dragging Richie on a hike.” 

Richie splutters. “Not on your fuckin’ life, Spaghetti, I’m not letting you trick me in to exercising again. I think we need to accept I’m a lost cause.”

“Bet I could convince you,” Eddie says, quieter but loud enough for Stan to hear. He coughs. Eddie goes pink, but keeps smiling.

Richie grins over at Bev and Ben. “How about you, Miss Marsh? You and the Greek God going back to visit Mt Olympus?”

Ben groans. “Richie.” 

Bev smiles. “We’re going to have Christmas with Ben’s parents, so, kinda?” Ben blushes, and she shares a look with him. “I’m kind of glad to have a break from the divorce drama.” She half-laughs, self-consciously. “Sorry for bringing the mood down.”

“No I’m with you,” Eddie says, with a grim smile. “Divorce is, as you all know, super fun. Even the early proceedings.”

Stan feels a jolt of anxiety. God. Divorce. That’s a thing he will also have to get soon. Intercontinentally. Mike squeezes his hand before he can spiral anymore, and he feels better. It’s not something he ever wanted, but if he has to do it, he’s glad it’s with Mike by his side.

*

Later still, Richie’s put on music, “in honour of his fucking sick high school mixtapes” he’s rediscovered and everyone’s dancing together.

Stan laughs, as the next song starts. 

_ Oh my life, is changing every day, in every possible way _

He catches Mike’s eye, as he’s dancing goofily with Ben and Eddie. Mike beams.

Bev grins. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing, just…we kind of danced to this. Mike and I. Prom night.”

“Scandalous!” Richie teases, earning himself a middle finger from Stan. “Wait, I made you a mix with this on it that year! Did I facilitate you getting your freak on? I’m honestly  _ honoured  _ Staniel –”

“Oh my god, Richie, I’m begging you to stop,” Stan says, unable to look at him but grinning. 

Bev grins. “Aw, I think it’s sweet. I love this song.”

“Me too,” he says, looking across at Mike. He really isn’t a good dancer, but he also doesn’t seem to care. They lock eyes, and it feels like that thing they used to have, that he and Patty had across parties in college and then at each other’s work functions. The feeling of everything blurring out for a moment, seeing your person and knowing they’re yours.

_ A totally amazing mind, so understanding and so kind, you’re everything to me _

“Yeah, can’t believe we pulled that one off, lads,” Richie says to them, looking over at the others, affection leaking out of his attempt at a jokey tone.

Bev laughs. “Yeah we’re pretty lucky. Lets go over and join them, I want to dance with Ben and also maybe kiss him.”

“Boo,” Richie says, grinning. Bev shoulder-checks him, giggling. “Don’t judge me, Tozier, I know you’re thinking of the same about Eddie.”

They come over, and Bill and Audra join, and everyone sings along to the end of the song until it’s just Bev and Richie trying to out-last each other, tipsily imitating the wilder and wilder  _ la _ ’ _ s  _ of the two singers in the end. 

“Happy Hannukah, Stan,” Mike says, laughing softly into his ear. 

“Merry Christmas, Mike,” Stan says, somewhere that’s not exactly his ear, but close enough. 

***

_ Summer 2017 _

“Yes? Alright. Talk to you then,” Bev says, and hangs up the phone. She takes a breath, and centres herself, smoothing her dress, a flowy light green-and-white maxi, which she’s layered with a light, loose sleeved cover-up. 

She’s getting better at being comfortable in her own skin again. She watches herself in the full length mirror. For a moment, she can remember so many times getting ready before events, trying to fix smudged makeup, hair pulled out of updos, straightening her dress and trying to smile at herself in the mirror, like if she just smiled she’d feel ok, and they could go to the party or the theatre or whatever like nothing had happened. 

Then they would – Tom wouldn’t mention it in the car over, and neither would she – and when they got there she’d greet everyone graciously and they’d be the picture of the perfect married couple, as long as you didn’t get too close. On one particularly egregious occasion, he’d flown into a rage about something he thought she was doing behind his back – not that he ever needed a reason, – on the night of a holiday party they were throwing in the brownstone. She had fixed her gown and redone her makeup and went out and greeted her guests like nothing was wrong. And then,after slipping out of the party,she’d taken herself to the hospital and was prescribed strong painkillers because he’d almost cracked one of her ribs. The doctor had seemed suspicious when she said Bev was lucky, that the ‘fall’ she’d taken hadn’t done worse damage . Bev had refused more help from the woman and hadn’t left Tom for nearly long enough. Permanently wouldn’t have been long enough.

“You alright, hon?” Ben says, looking out of the bathroom door at her, buttoning up his shirt. He looks at her, already betraying his concern. “Who was that?” 

She snaps out of it, and smiles at him. It’s been months, and she’s mostly used to seeing him there smiling at her, and not Tom’s puffy, red face, but sometimes she forgets. And then Ben’s usually there: a gentle, reassuring reminder of where she is. “Just lawyer stuff. Boring.” She shakes herself. “I don’t want to think about that today, I’m not allowing it to ruin my excitement.”

Ben smiles. “Yeah, I can’t wait to see everyone again.” 

“Me too,” she says, beaming, and walks up to him, putting a finger on his exposed skin where his shirt is still unbuttoned. She smirks. “Maybe you should just leave it unbuttoned, I mean, we’re going to be hanging out by the pool a lot.” 

Ben’s smile becomes self-conscious. “Maybe a bit too…seventies, for me.” 

She chuckles. “Alright, ruin my fun.” 

He grins, and then his eyes go softer,caring. “You’d tell me if something was up, right?” 

She looks at him, full of love and affection. “Yeah, honey, I would.” 

He smiles, and she leans in to kiss him, only interrupted by the sound of snuffling and a damp nose at her legs. She giggles, breaking away from Ben. 

“He’s jealous we’re hanging out with him,” Ben says, grinning. 

“Well, then I think we need to hang out with him,” Bev says, stooping to pat the dog. “Who’s gorgeous? Is it you? Is it you Frank?” she says, rubbing his back, unable to stop making the silly voice even if she wanted to. She can’t help it, she loves him. He’s been her good companion when Ben’s been away, an entirely sweet dog that nonetheless  _ looks  _ like he could be dangerous, at first glance. A little like his owner in that way. He makes her feel safe. 

***

Stan and Mike pull up outside the beach house and take it in for a moment. 

“Damn,” Stan says. 

“Yeah,” Mike agrees, simply. 

It’s a strange looking house – not gigantic, but comfortably sized, and seemingly set right on the Malibu beach. It’d taken them longer than they’d expected to get out of the city, Malibu being not extremely far, but the traffic was  _ awful,  _ and according to Richie, that was just normal. Stan thinks he couldn’t live here without going crazy. But maybe if he had a house like this and never had to go very far? 

They get out and Richie calls out, “Staniel! Mi-key!”

“Richie!” Mike says, meeting him and pulling him into a tight hug. 

“I’m glad to see you too, man, and thanks for the free chiropractic work,” Richie jokes, rubbing his back. 

Mike grins. “Sorry. I got excited.”

“No, I think you might have undone a few cricks, actually,” Richie says, laughs. “Although you might have to go easy on me, Stan,” he says, pulling him into a hug anyway. 

“Where’s Eddie?” Stan asks. 

Richie grins. “He parked at the top of the drive because he didn’t want to reverse out, and he told me to go on without him. He gets angry when he has to parallel park. Mainly because for someone so risk-averse, he is a  _ terrible  _ driver,” he says, affectionately. 

“You wouldn’t be getting any joy out of that, would you though?” Stan deadpans. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it. It’s not funny in the slightest,” Richie replies, positively gleeful. 

He gets a look at the house properly and gasps. “Jesus, Ben is like  _ rich- _ rich! Look at this place!” 

“It’s beautiful,” Mike says, smiling. 

“Especially to an architect,” Stan agrees. “I can see why he likes it.” 

The roof curves out into three arches, pointed at the top and curved at the bottom, almost like they’re moving, kind of like – 

“Waves,” Mike says. Stan looks at him, and smiles, just a little. Sometimes it’s just like that – Mike knowing what he’s thinking before he says it. 

Richie sighs out an  _ oooh,  _ then looks at Mike. “Loving the shirt Mikey, I knew you’d join my Hawaiian shirt party some day! Is that a Florida Mike original?”

Mike chuckles, looking down at his blue patterned-up. “Yeah, I suppose it is. Maybe this is also California Mike, now?” 

Richie laughs. “And it suits you so well! How’d the trip go?” 

Mike’s eyes light up. “ _ So _ good, but I’ll tell you more when we get in.” 

Stan notices Richie’s eyes going to his long sleeves and not commenting. He kind of half-expected him to say something, make fun of him for being in danger of overheating. He’s half-glad he hasn’t, but it also feels weird. He should probably just appreciate that Richie’s trying. 

“Hey, fucknut, do you think you could maybe help me with these bags?” 

They turn to see a red-faced Eddie carrying numerous bags and wheeling two suitcases. Richie grins, looking at him with deep affection. “You didn’t need to bring it all down  _ yourself _ , Eds, you maniac!”

“Is that all your stuff for this week?” Stan asks, mildly. 

“Oh no, that’s all his,” Richie replies without missing a beat. 

Eddie’s brows furrow even more intensely. “I drove you all the way to  _ Malibu,  _ and this is the thanks I get – ”

Stan looks at Mike, with a small smirk, and doesn’t have to say it because Mike gets it.  _ It’s begun.  _

***

Stan looks at himself in the mirror. Even the guest bedrooms in this insanely nice beach house are pretty, probably nicer than his master bedroom at home. Well, it won’t be home for much longer. Which is a good thing, he thinks. 

He can’t take too long getting ready, or it’ll seem like a bigger deal than it is. Everyone’s already out by the pool, he can hear the sound of laughter and music. 

He’d told Mike to go ahead of him, he was fine, he just needed to put his contacts in before going out to the pool. Mike would worry. And he’s fine, really. He’s fine. 

He’d also bought this red button-up in Florida, from the same place Mike got his own Hawaiian shirt. Mike had convinced him to buy it because it had this colourful bird print on it – ridiculous, and yet it didn’t look half as dumb on him as he’d expected. He even thought he looked good in it. 

He almost hadn’t bought it though. Not because of the bright colour, or the fact that generally, he’d adopted only one style rule: avoid dressing like Richie as much as possible. It was the sleeves. 

He looks at himself in the mirror. Trying to resist the urge to take the shirt off and bury himself under the bedcovers. 

Which he’s not going to do, because he’s fine. He’s  _ fine.  _

He takes a steadying breath, and tears himself away from the mirror, almost disgusted. This is easy. This was going to happen sooner or later. It’s been months. 

He goes out into the hallway, expecting it to be empty. Instead he sees someone at the other end, just before it opens into the lounge room, looking furtively round the corner. 

“You need to change into your contacts, too?” he asks, wryly. 

Bev turns, and looks anxious for a split-second before taking a breath, looking relieved. “Stan! You scared me.” 

He feels instantly apologetic. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he says, as he walks up to her. 

She smiles, softly. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just – “ Her eyes flick away and back. “Love that shirt by the way. It is not something I ever saw you wearing, but…You look  _ hot _ . Can I say that?” 

He grins a little. “I’ll allow it.” He pauses. “Thanks. I got it with Mike in Florida.” 

“Aw,” she says, smiling. “I can’t wait for you to tell me more about the trip! I know the important things, but I have to know how you and Mike ended up buying complementary Hawaiian shirts. There  _ has  _ to be a story.” 

He chuckles. “Oh yeah.” He looks at her. She’s wearing the loose-sleeved cover-up from earlier, tied loosely just above her waist, and he can see glimpses of what looks like a forest-green swimsuit under it. 

There’s a moment of silence. 

“Why’d you stop at the end of the hallway?” he asks, quietly.

“Living room has windows, and the pool’s just outside, and everyone’s…” she trails off, awkwardly.

“You’re not going out?” he asks, softer. 

“Are you?” she replies, looking at him, something very knowing and a little sad in her eyes. 

He looks down for a moment. “I’m – it’s stupid – ” 

“I don’t think so,” she says immediately, keeping his gaze. 

He takes a breath. “I was trying to convince myself I’m comfortable wearing this shirt. It’s not the shirt, it’s –“ he breaks off, and looks away briefly. “I haven’t had bare arms in public in a long time.” 

She keeps his look, smiles at him with a deep, sad empathy. “Yeah, me neither.” 

“That’s why you’re hiding in the hallway?” he asks, understanding. 

She nods. “I’m so embarrassed, I – ” she stops, and starts again. “It’s not like I haven’t been swimming here before. It’s not like Ben hasn’t seen…” she trails off, looking down at her arms. 

Stan shakes his head. “It’s different when it’s everyone.” 

“Yeah,” Bev says, quietly. 

He sighs. “I get what you mean. I – I can mostly deal with the – because I’ve got Mike. Mike’s seen them, and he makes me feel like they’re ok. Like they’re just another part of me. And I was so convinced I could do this – I packed this shirt feeling really cocky, like I could just walk out in it and not feel so – ” he breaks off, loosening a button on his collar. 

“Exposed?” Bev says. Her eyes are shining. 

“Yeah…” he says, tightly. 

She looks at him and reaches her hands out to his wrists. Her eyes are questioning.  _ Can I do this?  _

He nods, holding them out to her, trying not to cry. He’s on holiday, he’s not going to cry.

She turns them over. He doesn’t look away. There they are, pink and puckered. One neat, ugly little line on each arm, north-to-south. 

He sniffs. 

“They’re healing well,” she says, warmly. 

He looks at her. “They’ll always be there.” 

“So will some of mine,” she says, and pulls his arms up one after the other, to kiss his wrists very gently. Her loose sleeves fall back to her elbows, and he sees her bare arms again for the first time since November. It’s still a shock, but he notices the absence of bruises. 

“They’re getting better too, though,” he says, and she smiles a little. 

“Yes,” she says, and pulls him into a hug. 

Stan hugs her back tightly, blinking as he lets her go. She wipes her eyes one handed, and then looks at him matter-of-factly. “Ok, these are our friends. They love us. We can do this. Together. Right?” 

“Right,” he says, resolve strengthening. 

She hooks an arm around his. “It’s hot, and I’m going swimming. Care to join me?” 

He smiles, a little. “Love to.” 

***

“And Richie’s like,  _ this is the best film I’ve ever seen, Eds! I think that robot just peed on a guy, Eds! I’m glad Hollywood is lazy enough to mine my childhood for existing properties instead of developing new shit because I hope they never stop making these _ ,  _ Eds,  _ and I swear to God, Bill, every time I have to watch one of these movies my IQ drops a few points,” Eddie says, and takes a sip of his beer. 

Bill grins. “So, you’re really enjoying living with Richie, then?” he says, with only a touch of irony. 

Eddie’s eyes flick to where Richie’s horsing around in the pool, throwing a ball for Mike to catch as Ben and Stan attempt to block him. Richie makes fun of himself a lot, but he’s grown into a well-built man, and Eddie almost wishes Richie could see himself like this. Relaxed, handsome, happy. 

He smiles, looking back. “Yeah, I am,” he says, quieter. “I’m a lot happier than I was.”

“I’m glad,” Bill says, clinking his bottle with Eddie’s. 

They take sips in silence for a moment. 

Bill looks at him. “I’ll get it if you don’t want to talk about it right now, but I feel like I should ask…how are you going with the divorce?” 

Eddie feels his smile slip. “Well, divorces are generally efficient and fun and make everyone feel great, so.” 

Bill’s expression goes serious and apologetic. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up. We’re here to relax.” 

Eddie shakes his head. “No, that was unfair of me, sorry. It’s just a crap thing to have to keep thinking about, all this petty bullshit, and that’s before you get into how the lawyers argue about infidelity and marital problems.” 

Bill looks at him, sympathetic. “Is Myra making it difficult for you?”

Eddie sighs. “At the start, yes. She was really upset, and she was trying to fight me on small, petty things, and her lawyer was really aggressive.” He grimaces in frustration, remembering. “But then a few weeks ago we had a meeting where we somehow ended up outside the office by ourselves, with no lawyers around for the first time since I left her and…”

He thinks about it. 

_ “Myra I – ” he starts, wondering why he’s talking. Wondering why he hasn’t left, why she’s still here, watching him talk. She looks upset, but strangely curious. “I don’t want to fight about all of this crap, Myra. We can struggle it out over end tables and wardrobes, but I wanted to say something. You can tell me to shut up, if you want.”  _

_ Myra watches him, and nods slowly. She looks apprehensive.  _

_ He opens his mouth and closes it. “I’m sorry.”  _

_ Now she looks surprised.  _

_ He looks down, and then back at her. “I shouldn’t have left you that way. I – needed to, but I wish we could have talked, when we were calmer. But I don’t think we were ever calm.”  _

_ Myra doesn’t say anything. Her eyes are red, glistening. She looks at him. “I wish you hadn’t left. But I wish we could’ve talked, too. You really hurt me, I feel like I don’t know you at all anymore.”  _

_ He shakes his head, frowning. “Well, I’m sorry I wasn’t who you thought I was,” he snaps.  _

_ She frowns. “I thought you were my husband. I thought it meant something. And then you just leave me for someone else? Out of the blue? After ten years of being together? How was I supposed to know you’d do that when I married you?” _

_ He looks back at her, angry. “So this is what, revenge? You dragging this out and fighting me on everything?”  _

_ “No, it isn’t!” she says, and bursts into tears. Quiet tears. It’s strange. He has experience with loud tears, the way she gets when she’s looking to guilt him, but this is different somehow. She’s not even looking at him.  _

_ The silence is awful. He doesn’t feel like he should touch her, but he almost wants to comfort her. He just watches her cry.  _

_ “I don’t want to fight about this either, Eddie. But it’s – ” she looks at him. “It’s all I have left of you. Soon that’ll be gone too.”  _

_ He wants to be mad. She’s pulled this kind of guilt trip before, so many times. But the way she’s saying this – it’s uncommonly honest. It’s not a guilt trip.  _

_ He looks at her, suddenly struck by the sad, pathetic state of the situation. “Myra, I – you know our marriage is over. I can’t be with you. But what is the point of keeping us stuck in this misery? I’m not happy. You’re not happy. I don’t think either of us have been for a long time. I wasn’t honest, and you were anxious, and I think we brought out bad things in each other. Don’t you – don’t you want a chance to have something honest that actually makes you feel good?”  _

_ She lets out a small sob and looks at him. She looks genuinely terrified, devastated. “That’s the worst thing about this, Eddie. You have that, and it kills me to see that someone makes you happy in a way I’ve never been able to. Like I – I wanted to. When this is all over, you’ll have him and I’ll have…ten years of memories and a failed marriage.” She sobs again. “Who’s – who’s going to w-want me? I kn-know I’m not exactly a c-catch, and now I’m going to be f-forty and divorced.” She sobs. She pauses and says in a very small, high voice. “Wh-what if you’re it for m-me?” _

_ He used to be so exhausted by these manipulative hysterias, all the guilt trips and anxieties that she had made his problem. But, in this moment, he feels like they’ve never been more honest with each other. Like she’s not expecting something from him anymore, she’s actually telling him how she feels.  _

_ “Myra,” he starts, wondering what he can say. “I’m sorry I didn’t do this earlier. But I don’t think I’m your only shot – I think you could find someone who loves you in the right way.” She sniffles. “I shouldn’t say this but – if you do, you have to let go a bit. I know you were always scared for me, but with the right guy maybe you’ll be able to relax. I really want you to find some peace with someone, Myra. Or even just in yourself.” _

_ She looks at him strangely, but she’s not mad. He had figured it was fifty-fifty, but he’s glad she took his words to heart. “Thanks, Eddie.” She sighs, wiping her eyes. “I loved you, you know? I just thought – that was my way of showing you how much.” _

_ “Yeah,” he says, heavily. “Not your fault, but so did my mom.” _

_ The silence hangs between them. “I never meant to…hurt you. With all this. In our marriage. I really tried – ” he breaks off stiffly, looking away.  _

_ More silence. “I never meant to…hurt you, either,” Myra says, in a very small voice. He barely recognises it, it’s not how she sounds when she’s worked up and accusing him of trying to hurt her. It’s not a hysterical voice, it’s just sad and – guilty? Guilty? He’s heard a lot of shades of upsetting, and guilting from her, but not guilty herself. “I only tried to – ” She pauses and looks at him. “The closest I ever felt to you was when you let me look after you. In the beginning. I could feel you getting further away and I just wanted…I wanted it back. I tried too, Eddie – ”  _

_ She breaks off, and sniffles.  _

_ He ponders how he got here. Feeling angry with her had been easier than this – honest emotion for the first time in their relationship. The guilt is so much worse.  _

_ “I’m sorry for that,” he says, after a moment. “I’m sorry I lied to you for so long. I lied to myself.” _

_ She sniffles again. “I lied to myself. I think I knew, maybe, after we were married, that we weren’t right. I wanted it so badly. My mom was actually proud of me for once,” she says, quietly. “I’m sorry for how I behaved when you left. You shocked me. But then I had some time on my own to think and it started to make more sense. Then it just set in that you’d left me.” She sighs. “I guess we were a bit of a hothouse. I didn’t see that until I was outside of it. And I’ve been going to a therapist, so. Small steps.” _

_ Eddie looks at her, surprised. “That’s good.” He waits a beat. “So am I. Turns out repressing yourself into middle age isn’t great for your mental health.”  _

_ She looks at him, and almost smiles. “No? Well, apparently I have control issues, so?” _

_ He almost smiles, too. He can’t remember the last time she made a joke. Especially a self-deprecating one. _

_ It’s a strangely nice moment.  _

_ “I might be…having to come to terms with who you are now, or have always been, I guess,” Myra starts, and Eddie’s hackles are raised again, but he realises she’s not about to act like she did when he was leaving. “But in a way, I’m glad. For so long, I felt like you didn’t want me. Like a husband should. And maybe you wanted other women. Maybe you had them, and it was just me you couldn’t bring yourself to touch. I got so crazy about it, and I know I tried to control you. I am…sorry for that. But the thought just hurt so much, and I was – ” She trails off and sighs. Her voice is small, and still. “I was so afraid it was just me. Something wrong with me.” _

_ He pauses, feeling guilty again. Oddly better, though. In all the time they were together, they were never this honest with each other. Too afraid of what they might know. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I hope…I really do hope you find something that makes you happy. Or someone.”  _

_ She looks at him, sidelong. Almost surprised. “Thanks, Eddie.” A woman ducks out of the room they’re sitting outside of to let them know they can come back in. Myra looks back at him. “Tell him … tell him to take care of you.” She smiles, a bit wistful. “Guess he knows how to better. But tell him anyway.” _

Bill looks at Eddie, surprised. “Wow. Didn’t expect you to say that. So you were honest, and she apologised? How’d that feel?” 

Eddie sips his beer, thinking. “Weird. And weirdly cathartic? I mean, I was miserable being married to her. And she was so worked up when I was leaving, it was…easy to be mad at her. Maybe I was…” he looks down. “Maybe I was mad at my mom, too. Maybe Myra got part of that, I don’t know.” He looks at Bill. “But actually talking to her? I can’t remember ever being that open with her. Or her with me. She’s been way more reasonable since. And I’ve tried to be fairer, too. It’s not,  _ not _ awkward, sometimes. But it’s better.” 

Bill smiles. “Well, I’m glad, Eddie.” He looks a little distant for a moment. “Not to be – insensitive,” he says, in an undertone. “But I’m glad I’m not going through that right now. I don’t think I’d cope as well.” 

Eddie glances over at the sun loungers where Bev and Audra are hanging out. Audra might be asleep. It’s hard to tell when she’s wearing sunglasses, but Bev seems to be talking to her. 

“How are things now?” he asks.

Bill smiles, looking more relaxed. “Good. A lot better. It was a bit touch and go for a moment, but we’ve gotten closer again.” 

Eddie smiles. “Glad to hear it. I like her a lot.”

Bill chuckles. “Yeah, I know.”

Eddie shakes his head, grinning and pink-cheeked. “I guess the baby’s been good for you guys, then. You getting excited?” 

Bill sort of smiles, half a grimace. “I – ” his eyes flick over to Audra. “Yeah, I’m really excited. But at the same time, kind of…fucking terrified? I kind of didn’t think I’d be a father at this point.” He’s still kind of half-smiling, but his eyes are haunted. “What if I’m a shitty dad? My dad didn’t mean to be, but, well. You remember.” 

He pauses, and his smile slips entirely. He doesn’t meet Eddie’s eyes, looking down. “What if I can’t protect my kid?” 

Eddie feels suddenly inadequate, thrown back for a second to being thirteen and helpless to make Bill’s pain go away, not good at comforting and already coping with his own shit. But then, suddenly, he thinks,  _ I’m an adult now. He’s still my friend. Just be his friend.  _

“Professionally, I know about risk. I judge a lot of risks. Having a kid is one of the biggest risks you can take,” Eddie starts. Bill doesn’t look thrilled. He continues, keeping Bill’s gaze. “But some risks are worth taking, and believe me, I know about that too. All you can do is – love them, and accept that you’ll always be a little afraid for them.” He pauses. “If you try to stop that, you could end up like my mom. Not that I think you would, you’re way kinder than her. But she was just – so afraid I would leave her, that something would happen to me if I did, that she pushed me away.” 

Bill looks stunned, and smiles speechlessly. After a moment he says, “Damn. And I thought Stan was the therapist here.” 

Eddie chuckles. He looks at Bill. “You don’t need to worry. You’re going to be an amazing dad.” 

Bill smiles, grateful. “Thanks, Ed. Makes me feel better to know they’ll have two uncles nearby.” 

Eddie grins. “Yeah, I think Richie can’t wait to hang out with the baby. Teach it bad habits.” 

Bill laughs, shaking his head.

***

Bev lies back in the lounger, smiling. It’s warm but not disgustingly so. The loungers are arranged to look across the pool and out, across the green hills and other houses, at the jewel-toned sea. 

She really loves this house. 

She looks out at the pool, where Richie and Mike are playing some kind of loose game involving a ball against Ben and Stan. 

Richie misses the ball, and when going to grab it he stops to look back at the house. He looks back at Ben. “This place is  _ insane,  _ who  _ are _ you? Did you design it?” 

“Yes. I designed it,” Ben says evenly, and then breaks into a smile. “No, God, I wish! This guy was amazing. I would have to be like, ninety to have designed it, it was built in 1957.”

“Well, excuse me for not being an architecture nerd, Ben,” Richie snarks. 

Mike grins. 

“The roof kind of reminds me of something?” Stan says, looking at Mike. “You said waves before, but there’s something else?”

Mike nods, smiling. “Yeah it’s like…” he trails off, looking thoughtful.

“Sydney Opera House,” Stan says, and Mike laughs. 

“That’s it!”

Richie laughs. “Pretty wild to scalp your design from a building that well known. That’s like the one thing I know about Australia. Everything else is from that one episode of the Simpsons.” 

“Well, if you want a fact  _ from _ an architecture nerd,” Ben says, smiling. Bev smiles, listening in on the conversation. She likes the way his face lights up when he talks about obscure architecture facts. “Harry Gesner,who designed this place, had a Danish architect visit - Jorn Utzon - and he was so impressed it actually inspired his later design entry for competition to design a little building halfway across the world…”

“No way,” Mike says, looking fascinated. 

“Yep,” Ben says. “The Sydney Opera House. So, technically, Jorn scalped Harry, Rich.” 

“That is wild, this house has  _ history, _ ” Richie says. “Has anyone famous ever owned it? If you told me that Liz Taylor did lines off that kitchen island I’d believe you. That sunken lounge inside seems  _ very  _ seventies key-party-ish. I really get that vibe y’know? I feel like that would have been fun, all leisure suits and pot and sleeping with your friend’s spouse - ”

“We’re not having a key party, Rich, you depraved monster,” Bill cuts in from where he’s sitting on the edge of the pool, drinking a beer with Eddie, a little damp from the water but semi-dried already.

Richie laughs. “I just said it would’ve been fun to do in the seventies, not that I want to do it with  _ you _ uggos,” he teases. 

Eddie shakes his head. “I think he needs to be dunked, and I don’t want to get back in. Stan?” 

Stan looks at the other two and nods. 

Bev laughs, turning away from Richie’s noises of protest. 

Audra’s eyes flutter open, on the lounger next to her. “Sorry, were you saying something? I had a micro-nap.”

Bev shakes her head. “No, you’re good.”

“God, I feel like I might fall asleep right here. This baby is just stealing my energy constantly,” Audra says, yawning, “I have rediscovered pasta though. As you can probably tell,” she says, with grim humour. “I know, I don’t want to be such a  _ stereotype _ , complaining about my weight, but I just feel like a whale right now. It’s so weird.”

Bev smiles sympathetically. They’ve become close in the last year, a combination of in-person catch ups through Bill, and then an unexpected text-chain friendship. Bev understands the struggle of her situation – wanting to see herself as more than her weight, as more than her looks, in her job, while her job is  _ very much  _ built on the weight and looks of herself and every woman like her; exacerbated by the baby weight she’s putting on that makes her feel unlike herself. She understands, at least, what it’s like not to recognise your own body. Everyone has been kind enough not to stare or ask about it, she shouldn’t have doubted them. “Well, you don’t look like one. You wear it very well, Aud.” 

Audra smiles gratefully back. “Thanks, you’re sweet.”. She’s wearing a stylish black one-piece, well-made. Designer, definitely. She rubs her belly. “Not you, you’re a terror already,” she jokes, grinning. “Don’t come out before August, alright?” 

Bev grins. “Why August?” 

“August is when we’re hoping we can premiere  _ The Attic Room _ ,” Audra says, looking genuinely excited. 

“You’ll be up to going by then?” Bev asks, surprised.

Audra sighs. “Several doctors have assured me that August should be fine, I’m not due till September, as long as I don’t overdo it. And I know I will be pregnant as  _ fuck _ by that point, but I worked so hard on that movie, I’ll be really upset if I can’t go. I mean, I already compromised by not doing as much promotion. Which might have also been a good thing, I was pretty tired with the amount I did. Don’t tell Bill that though, his protective instinct is still fighting with his knowledge to let me do what I need to do.” She looks over where Bill is sitting and she smirks, calling out, “You’re good with me going to the premiere, right, babe?” 

“Uh, yeah, of course, as long as it’s not too long, and you keep hydrated, and the doctor – ” he starts, and then blushes slightly. “You know.” 

Eddie looks instantly interested, and more concerned, and Bev would bet he’s dying to ask a million questions about it, and the health risks associated, but he holds himself back. 

Bill looks around. “We’re still not 100 percent sure of the date, but the studio is saying mid August, for the premiere? We’d love everyone to come, if you can be in L.A around then?” 

Richie grins, in the pool, hair still messy. “Why, a  _ Hollywood _ premiere? For us small-town hayseeds? You really mean it, mistuh?” he says, in an exaggeratedly innocent and childish voice.

Bill points at him. “You wanna get dunked again?” 

Richie laughs. “I mean,  _ obviously _ , me and Eds will be there. Not like I’m going anywhere, anytime soon,” he says, and at Bill’s expression, adds, “And because I want to support my blood brother, my oldest friend, my bosom pal, my fellow creative – ” 

“Ok, ok,” Bill cuts him off, grinning. “What does everyone else think?”

Bev catches Ben’s eye, and smiles. She looks over at Bill. “We wouldn’t miss it.” 

“Can’t wait!” Ben says, smiling. “I’m going to lock that into my work calendar as soon as we know the date.” 

Mike looks at Stan, sharing an interesting look. Stan nods. Bev raises her eyebrows at him. He smiles and looks at Bill. “I’m sure we’ll be able to come.”

“As much as I  _ really  _ want you guys to be there, don’t feel like you have to,” Bill says, thoughtfully. “I know it’s harder for you to get time off, and I’m not sure if that’ll be in school time, and flying between coasts is a big ask just for one thing – I’ll get it if we just see you when you come out later in the year.”

“Weeeell,” Mike says, smiling enigmatically. “We were going to wait until later to say but – it might not be such a long flight.”

Everyone looks at him, curiously. 

“I sold my house,” Stan picks up. “We’re closing on a place in Portland. The Oregon one, that is. We’re going back to finalise it after this week, while we’re still on this coast. So, I think, by August we’ll be pretty tired, but we’ll be able to come to the premiere.” 

Everyone whoops. Bill looks thrilled. “Good, because I would have been  _ devastated  _ if you were the only ones that weren’t there.” 

“West coast, baby! We’re all going to be on the same coast at last!” Richie says, hugging them. 

***

Everyone has moved poolside, dried off under towels and in the sun, lying around on couches and loungers. Half-drunk beers and a jug of non-alcoholic punch take up most of the table between them.

“So September?” Bev asks. “That’s awesome, where are you thinking of going?” 

“We’re still thinking, but we’d love to do Italy, Spain, southern Europe,” Mike says, excited. Stan feels the rumble of his voice, lying back against his warm chest. He’d only meant to be sitting on the edge of the lounger but Mike had pulled him back so he’d be more comfortable, and Stan had let him. “Lot of nerdy historical sites I’d like to visit,” Mike continues, and without looking at him, Stan can picture his smile. 

Bev grins. “I’m sure. If you’re doing Italy, you’d love Venice. Right, Ben?”

“Oh yeah, you can’t go wrong with most of Italy but Venice is especially cool. The buildings are just –” Ben starts excitedly, sitting next to Bev on the couch. He laughs. “I mean, you guys probably won’t freak out about the architecture as much as me, but there’s also a lot of history that I think you’d find very interesting.” 

“We’ll keep it in mind,” Stan says. “We were also considering parts of central and Northern Europe, there’s a lot to choose from. Like, I kind of want to go to Germany. I want to see Berlin, but also, I don’t know. There’s definitely a lot there that’s not exactly light holiday fun.” 

Ben nods. “I mean, I love it, but I get what you mean – it’s a city that really doesn’t forget its history. For better or worse.” 

“Yeah.” Stan smiles, trying to lighten the mood. “Would give me an opportunity to use my German, though. It’s a bit rusty, but I think I could do it.”

Bev grins. “College, right. Your fancy Princeton German.”

Stan laughs. “Something like that.” 

“Whereabouts in Northern Europe?” Ben asks, interested. 

“I mean, it’s a big trip,” Mike says, and Stan can tell he’s hedging. “We might not have time, or more importantly, money to get further north than England, you know.” 

Stan turns his head to look at him. “You wanted to see some historical parts of Scandinavia, too, though, right? Why not?” 

Mike gives him a funny look. “There’s enough history in the rest of Europe, I’m sure I won’t miss much.” 

Stan smiles at him, affectionately. “I can deal with being nearby, you know. We can even go to Denmark if you want, I won’t lose my mind.” 

Mike smiles. “I’ll consider it.” Stan turns his head and catches Bev’s eye, who smiles at him. He smiles back, leaning into the warmth of Mike’s chest.

*

Richie looks around at the group. He’s still not able to get over catching up with them all like this, even though they’ve caught up a few times since last year. He feels so happy it’s almost hard to trust it, but he’s getting better at it. Apparently therapy does work, who knew? Well, Stan, but he would be unbearable if Richie admitted it. 

“You know how it is, it’s a good thing Eddie has to go into an office or I’d probably drive him crazy, eating cereal straight from the box and playing  _ Breath of The Wild  _ all day,” he says to Mike.

Eddie laughs, beside him. “You already drive me nuts, what’s new?” Richie grins, and Eddie stops and adds, with dawning anxiety, “Tell me you don’t eat it with your hands, Rich?”

Richie wraps his arm around Eddie’s waist, tighter, and grins innocently. “No, I’d never do that to you,” he lies. 

Mike laughs. Stan gives him a suspicious half-smirk. 

“So, you working on anything new?” Mike asks him. 

Everyone, Richie notices, is subtly paying attention to his answer, even those who aren’t actively in the conversation. He supposes it’s just that they care, which is nice, even if it’s nerve-wracking as well. 

“Yeah, I mean, it’s not a big deal,” he starts, laughing self-consciously. “I’ve probably complained about it separately a bit this year. But yeah, I’ve been working on a…something. Another show, maybe? I don’t fuckin’ know…” he laughs, again. “My own stuff, this time. Which is why it’s been so fuckin’ hard to write, I guess. Bill, I don’t know how you sit down and write a whole fuckin’ novel, it’s a nightmare writing an hour long set. My brain has forgotten everything I ever knew, and my agent keeps asking me how I’m going.” 

Bill nods sagely. “It’s a real process of avoidance. Although it’s harder and there are more people to bullshit when you’re working on a movie.” 

Audra giggles. “Yeah, I’ll say. You got there in the end. At the eleventh hour.”

“So, what’s it going to be like?” Bev asks, with a slight smirk. “I’m assuming less,  _ women, am I right, fellas? _ ”

Richie grins, sheepish. “Yeah, it’s mostly going to be  _ dudes, am I right fellas?  _ stuff now,” he jokes, to the group’s general amusement. “I mean, Eddie is just prime slice-of-life comedy material. I will never run out of material as long as I live with him.” 

“I can and will sue,” Eddie says darkly. Richie grins, rubbing Eddie’s side.

He thinks about it. “Not to get all, stupidly earnest, for a moment but – I kind of wanted to talk about myself more. And like, myself as a kid. Our childhood. Not –  _ that _ , fuck – ” he says, noting the momentary look in everyone but Audra’s eyes. “I mean, only in the most vague of terms. I’d let you guys know if there was anything fucked-up and personal you should know about before I finish it – I just –” he groans, shaking his head. “See, I’m already not coping with this level of earnestness. But, like, I wanted you guys to know, I wouldn’t have thought I could go into that, without seeing all you losers again.” He grins, feeling his cheeks warm. “Whatever, it might end up being nothing.”

“Aw, Richie, that’s sweet,” Bev says, smiling affectionately. “I knew you loved us,” she teases, lightly.

“Ah, shaddup,” he says, looking at her, still grinning. “So, what’ve you got in the pipeline then, Miss Marsh?”

She smiles, and her eyes flick to Ben. “Well,” she starts, smiling, with an edge of steel in her tone. “As you guys know, I left Rogan+Marsh, and Tom’s trying to make it hard for me to get anything out of it.” 

Richie frowns, already angry for her. Looking around, he can see he’s not the only one. 

But Bev’s smile lightens, unexpectedly. “So, I’m not fighting him on it. I don’t want it anyway. But a fair few of my favourite people walked out with me, and now we’re starting our own label.” She looks at Ben, lovingly, slipping her hand into his. “Which we couldn’t have done without Ben’s support.”

Ben goes, still, faintly pink, but smiles. “It’s all you, Bev, you’re the creative. But I’m happy to help with the boring stuff.”

Richie raises his beer. “I think this calls for a toast.” 

Everyone is smiling, raising glasses and bottles. Richie looks at Bev. “To the most irrepressible, badass, fashion designer I know. Long has she attempted to evolve my fashion sense, and at this point I think she’s just accepted I’m a lost cause.”

Bev and others laugh. Eddie shakes his head, grinning. “I’ll get you into a suit yet,” Bev replies, smirking.

“To Bev’s new label!” He calls, raising his bottle higher. 

Bev looks at him, still raising her glass. “And to Richie’s… _ something  _ show _ . _ Whatever it turns out to be, I’m sure we’ll love it!” 

Richie laughs. “Better be good then, or it’ll make it super awkward to talk to you all about it.” Everyone cheers, and seven glasses and bottles clink together.

Bill is sitting near him, and Richie turns to him. “So, what about you? You’ve definitely been complaining to me about writing stuff lately.” 

Bill grins. “Thanks, Rich.” 

Richie rolls his eyes. “Come on, I know you’ve got the movie, but I’m sure you’re kicking something new around. Tell us. Teeeellll uuuuusssss.” 

Bill makes a face. “Ok, but only because I know you won’t stop being annoying until I tell you.” 

“Some things don’t change,” Stan adds, dryly. Audra smiles, looking between them. She rests her head against Bill’s neck.

Bill looks at the group. “Alright, but it’s very early on. And like Richie, I wanted to talk to you about it anyway, because I don’t think I would’ve had the idea without being with you all again.” 

Richie’s certainly interested. Everyone looks curious.

Bill looks a little nervous, probably like anyone explaining a creative idea to people for the first time – but also, there’s something deeper in it. Something older. He recognises the look. 

“Kind of like Richie, but not as – autobiographical, I g-guess –“ Bill starts, and then stops. “Sorry, what I’m t-trying to say,” he says, and winces slightly. It must be serious if it’s kicking up his stutter. Richie’s barely heard it since they left Derry. “I want to write a book that’s kind of… inspired by our experiences when we were kids, back home. And us, kind of the way we found each other, and that helped us – g-get through it.” 

Everyone considers it. Richie can understand where he’s coming from – before last year he never would have wanted to delve into his childhood, even if he had been writing for himself. He doesn’t now, exactly, but he’s finding a surprising amount of material in it, joking about the small shitty things and talking around the big fucked-up thing. He doesn’t want to straight up talk about it – it’s comedy, and also the fucked-up thing involves a lot of other people – but he’s realising, probably due to the therapy, that he can’t totally ignore it either. 

“So, would it be like a…true crime thing?” Mike asks, looking only a little troubled by this. 

Bill shakes his head. “You guys know m-me, I only write fiction. And even then, it’s m-mostly the one genre…”

“So you’re going to write a horror novel about our horrorshow childhood? Dare I say it might be  _ too  _ easy?” Richie asks, and somehow this breaks the tension. Several people groan.

Bill smiles at him, almost gratefully. “I mean it won’t exactly be  _ us,  _ I don’t know yet. But I want to be about a group of kids impossibly defeating something terrifying. Something they have to do on their own, and h-how…they can only do it because they’re together, and they have this bond, and it helps them deal with what’s b-been taken from them,” he says, finishing softly. 

“Well, I can’t wait to read it,” Bev says, kindly, with a kind of fiery empathy in her eyes. 

“Yeah, we want previews!” Richie says. “Can’t wait to see what kind of horror movie villain they’ll take down, Billiam.” 

Audra has her arm around him, comfortingly. 

Eddie raises his beer. “I think this calls for another toast,” he says, and shares a knowing look with Bill. “To our friend, who always looked out for us, and who will soon have a new child to look after and tell stories too.” 

Richie smiles at Eddie, and then Bill. “Although, maybe wait until they’re in their early teens before you start letting them read your books, man. Even though I’m very keen for this new one, where I will obviously be the handsomest, funniest member of the group.”

“Yeah, that’s how fiction works, Rich - it’s not real,” Stan deadpans, and everyone laughs and clinks glasses. “To Bill!”

After a few moments of drinking and quiet, Audra speaks up, sitting on Bill’s lap and holding her glass of non-alcoholic punch, looking very content. “I know I don’t know some of you all that well still, but the more time I spend with you all, the more I can really see this…energy, between you all,” she says, and laughs. “I know that sounds crazy. I don’t mean like I can  _ see _ it, more like it’s a feeling…I’m from New Mexico, my mom was  _ big  _ into crystals and auras and all of that crap, and I’m not, exactly, but one thing that rubbed off on me was that I - I do feel like you can sense strong connections between people. And you guys, you just have this bond. There’s so much love in it, and it’s not really like anything I’ve ever seen. It’s like your fates are tied together.” She laughs again. “Sorry, I think the baby hormones are making me more hippy-dippy and emotional than usual.” 

Bill chuckles, holding her to him, pressing a kiss to her neck. 

“Actually, that’s not so crazy,” Mike speaks up. “Depending on where you’re from. Have you ever heard of the red thread of fate?” 

“No, but I’d love to hear something that makes me sound less crazy,” Audra replies, interested.

Mike nods, smiling. “It’s a belief in some East Asian cultures, adapted from Chinese mythology, I think, that people who are destined to love each other are connected by an invisible red thread. No matter how far it stretches or gets tangled, it never breaks. It’s like a version of the – Western soulmate idea. I like the invisible thread idea though.”

Audra smiles. “I like it too. That’s kind of what I meant – you’ll always be connected.” 

“Then I propose another toast to my threadmates,” Richie says, to several groans and laughs. Everyone holds up their glasses and bottles again. “I love you Losers, ok?” 

“Aw, I knew it, you softie,” Bev says, beaming and reaching out to clink her bottle with everyone. 

Richie looks at everyone’s happy faces, and at Eddie, who smiles back at him easily, and thinks that maybe the Chinese were onto something with that myth. Maybe he is going soft – but it’s not such a bad thing, maybe. 

He hears someone’s phone beep, and Mike goes to grab his phone from the table. “Oh cool – Stan, the save-the-date’s come through to my email. Late next year, so it won’t clash with our travel plans.” 

Stan smiles, easily. “Well, that’s good. I’m kind of excited to meet them, actually.”

Richie looks at them, grinning. “Who do you know that’s getting married?” 

Mike looks strangely proud. “Ok, so, I don’t make a point of befriending students outside of school, because boundaries, appropriateness, etc. Believe me,” he starts, and Stan sniggers, and Richie is  _ absolutely  _ going to ask about that later. “But I had these two whip-smart kids – few years back, now – and they were  _ so _ different to each other, but very close, and I knew they had a hard time in school. I could relate.” His smile fades a little, and Richie’s stomach sinks in reply. He doesn’t have to ask what they got a hard time over. “So I liked to keep an eye out for them, look out for them without being too obvious. I even wrote them recommendations for college, because I knew they wanted to go to New York, or really anywhere sufficiently far away from Maine.” 

He smiles, only a little rueful. Stan looks thoughtful. 

“And they left for college, and I didn’t hear much from them, mostly just on the rare occasion I ran into one of their mothers in town or something,” Mike says, and then brightens. “A few years ago, I ran into them when they were back in town, and it just seemed like – they actually did it. Went to college in New York, moved in together. Stayed together. Even through all the crap they faced together in school. I’m glad things were different, for them.” He shakes his head. “It’s weird, because they’re obviously not my kids, but I’m proud of them like they are? It’s just – as a teacher, you don’t often get to see how your favourite students have grown up, or if they’re thriving. I’m so happy for them. They really deserve it.” 

Richie feels a small pang. He doesn’t know whether to be depressed his former high school hasn’t changed much, or jealous that they were braver than him. His therapist would probably remind him that he can’t compare his experiences to theirs, they’ll always have had different challenges. 

“Anyway, I didn’t expect them to stay in touch, but we kind of have over the last few years. Adrian’s a late-night writer now, and I think Don works in the city-planning office? And they texted me to ask if it’d be ok if they invited me to their wedding, and they’ve just sent the official email through now.” He grins at Richie. “Sorry, didn’t realise that would be such a story, Rich.” 

Richie smiles, despite himself. “Aw, look at you. Melding minds. Being a comforting role model for the impressionable youth of Derry.”

Stan smiles, eyes half-lidded, leaning back into Mike’s chest. “That’s our Mike.”

Something tugs at his memory.  _ AM….AM….AM+DH…. _

He looks at Mike, feeling a jolt through his body. “What year did you say they graduated?” he tries to ask casually. 

Mike considers it for a moment. “About ten years ago? I think it was the 2007-08 school year.” 

Richie smiles, struck, and he can tell Mike and Stan are watching him curiously. He can’t help looking at Eddie, to his side. Maybe he won’t even remember. 

But the small, private smile of surprise Eddie gives him says he does.

***

**Email dated 10:42am, Monday June 27** **th** **, 2017**

_ From:  _ [ _ wd@williamdenbrough.com _ ](mailto:wd@williamdenbrough.com)

_ To:  _ [ _ lcardona@sparkeripsomlaw.com _ ](mailto:lcardona@sparkeripsomlaw.com) _ _

_ Hi Lucia, _

_ _

_ I’m sorry to just email you out of the blue like this, I know I don’t know you. I got your email from my friend, who knows your mother – if your mother is Rosa Cardona. _

_ He had a number for her, but it doesn’t seem to be in service any longer. I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, but in trying to see if I could find her contact information for him on the internet, I came across your information, and I know that he mentioned she had a daughter with your name and around your age, in the Atlanta area. _

_ If you’re not Rosa Cardona’s daughter, then I’m sorry to have bothered you with this at your work email – it was the only public contact information I could find, and it’s really quite important that I contact this woman. If you are her daughter, I’d really appreciate you passing this onto your mother. She can contact me at this email address or on my phone at 213-200-8447. I realise I’m taking a risk just sharing this with you freely, given that I don’t know you, and you might just want to post it online, but from what I saw on the Sparke and Ripsom website, I’m taking the chance in the hopes that you won’t. _

_ I’d really appreciate any help you can give me here – your mother did me a great service last year and I’d like to personally thank her. _

_ _

_ Kind regards, _

William Denbrough

Author | [ www.williamdenbrough.com](http://www.williamdenbrough.com/)

E: wd@williamdenbrough.com

*

**Email dated 1:17pm, Tuesday June 28** **th** **, 2017**

_ From: wd@williamdenbrough.com _

_ To: lcardona@sparkeripsomlaw.com _

_ _

_ Hi William, _

_ _

_ I wasn’t quite sure how to reply to this. My first thought was that it was some kind of overly involved prank that a workmate was playing on me? But I talked to my friend in the IT department, and he figured out that the email was at least sent from Los Angeles, so I’m assuming it’s not the guy from contracts law who thinks he should have gotten my job. Sorry for the preamble, this is just a really weird email to be writing, if I take it as a given that I’m writing it to the person I seem to be. _

_ I do live in Atlanta, and so does my mother, who is named Rosa Cardona. She’s a housekeeper, if that helps? Again, I’m still trying to understand why you emailed me in the first place – you said it’s your friend who knows her, but then you said she did you, personally, ‘a great service’? Just in case this is a case of mistaken identity, she’s never been near the West Coast – she and my father moved to Georgia before I was born, and she only ever leaves the state to visit family in Colombia. _

_ Sorry if that sounds combative, I work with a lot of lawyers. It’s also a little bit me, I guess. You also mentioned last year, and maybe that’s why I’m hoping you’re being honest with me – she did have a serious experience last year, and she was quite shaken. I’d feel more comfortable telling her your message if you could explain why it’s so urgent that someone like you needs to get in touch with my mother. I’m sorry, I can’t even really fathom how any of your friends would know her, unless they’re from around here? She looks after a lot of places. _

_ Thanks, and again I don’t mean to sound rude – I just want to protect my Mom, she’s done so much for me, _

_ Lucia _

_ _

Lucia Cardona

Paralegal, Sparke & Ripsom: Immigration and Family Law

730 Peachtree St NE # 1070, Atlanta, GA 30308, United States

Phone: +1 404-897-1836

[ www.sparkeandripsomlaw.com ](http://www.sparkeandripsomlaw.com/)

*

**Email dated 1:20pm, Tuesday 27** **th** ** June, 2017**

_ From: wd@williamdenbrough.com _

_ To: lcardona@sparkeripsomlaw.com _

_ Hi Lucia, _

_ It’s a long story but I feel like I can kill two birds here – explain and also convince you this isn’t a very misjudged prank from your co-worker – if you call me on that number. Whenever works for you, I’ve got my phone on. And I work from home, so I don’t have a set schedule – I’m three hours ahead, so whenever is fine. _

_ Thanks, _

_ Bill _

_ _

William Denbrough

Author | [ www.williamdenbrough.com](http://www.williamdenbrough.com/)

E: wd@williamdenbrough.com

*

**Email dated 8:36pm, Wednesday June 28** **th** **, 2017**

_ From: luciacardena@gmail.com _

_ To: wd@williamdenbrough.com _

_ Hi Bill, _

_ _

_ Feels weird to call you that, but you did ask me to, so. This is my personal email, I thought I should maybe stop using my work one for something family-related. I’m sorry I’ve taken longer than I expected to get back to you, but I had a bit of an emotional conversation with Mom when I got home after our phone call, and I was just too exhausted to get back to you, and work has been very busy. When is it not, I guess. _

_ As I said, Mom’s all work ethic and not taking a lot of credit, she’s just really quiet about her kindness. But she was really, genuinely moved to hear that your friend is doing a lot better and isn’t alone. She said that he and his ex-wife were always kind to her, always asked about her life, and me and my kids, and always tipped her well. She said it was sad that your friend’s ex-wife had to leave, but she’s glad she’s helping people overseas, like you said, because “they need more people like her helping people”. _

_ She’s still a bit surprised that you’re so close with him (I promise, I explained!) but she asked if I could give you her new number to pass on to your friend. Her phone was stolen a while back and she lost some of her contacts – especially old clients – and she wanted to check in with your friend, but he wasn’t there any of the times she went by his house, so she thought he might have moved away? _

_ Anyway, if you could pass on her number to him, I know she’d be really, really happy to catch up with him again. It’s 404-200-7777. _

_ _

_ Thanks again, _

_ Lucia _

_ _

_ * _

**Email dated 9:21am, Thursday 29** **th** ** June, 2017**

_ From: wd@williamdenbrough.com _

_ To: luciacardena@gmail.com _

_ _

_ Hi Lucia, _

_ I will definitely pass that on to Stan, he will be so grateful to get the chance to talk to her again. He feels very much in her debt, even though she was kind enough not to make a big deal of that to him. _

_ I can’t pay that debt for him, but I feel like I have my own debt to her. As I said to you when we talked, Stan’s one of my oldest, closest friends. I’ve known him since I was six years old, and I couldn’t begin to explain how devastated I would have been at his loss, even though we had drifted apart. What your mother did brought him back into my life, and a lot of others. Reminded me how very important he is to me, and how much I’ve missed him, and the fact that I might have not had this second chance, if not for your mother – words can’t express how much I am indebted to her. _

_ With that in mind, even though this just is a small token of my gratitude and I fully understand that this is quite a commitment, I’m hoping that two months notice is enough – I was only just given the exact date myself. I don’t know if you’re familiar with my work (I don’t say this to big myself up, I swear!) but the film version of my novel  _ The Attic Room,  _ that I wrote the screenplay for and my wife stars in, is having a premiere in Los Angeles on Saturday, August 26 _ _ th _ _ 2017, and if you would like to – and especially if Rosa would, I would really love to meet her – I would be honoured to bring her, you and your two children (if you want, although I can understand if you just want to take a holiday with your mother!) for the weekend, to go to the premiere. Stan will be there. Of course I’d cover your flights and accommodation. _

_ Please tell me if that suits you and your family, especially your mother.  _

_ Bill _

William Denbrough

Author | [ www.williamdenbrough.com](http://www.williamdenbrough.com/)

E:  [ wd@williamdenbrough.com ](mailto:wd@williamdenbrough.com)

*

**Email dated 10:02am, Saturday August 19** **th** **, 2017**

_ From: luciacardena@gmail.com _

_ To:  _ [ _ wd@williamdenbrough.com _ ](mailto:wd@williamdenbrough.com)

_ Hi again,  _

_ Thanks for sending through that information about this weekend. This is so generous of you, and we’re all very excited here! My kids have not stopped talking about it since the end of June, and I know Mom’s really grateful for this - she works very hard and often it’s a struggle convincing her to take a holiday, so I think this will be good for her. I mean, as I said earlier, she’ll just meet you guys before the film, and then take Sofia for ice-cream or something. Mom’s not a big fan of scary movies, and I don’t think I’d be a great mom if I allowed my nine-year-old to watch a horror film I couldn’t take her to in cinemas, but I couldn’t bear to tell her she couldn’t come to the premiere with us!  _

_ Hope everything’s running smoothly with the baby and the premiere and you’re not too stressed! We’re really looking forward to meeting you, your wife and everyone else.  _

_ Thanks, _

_ Lucia _

***

_ Christmas 2017  _

“I always forget how nice Bill’s house is,” Bev says, closing the glass door to the back deck, holding a drink. “Apparently there’s money in writing, who knew?” 

Mike smiles, putting his phone back in his pocket. “You can talk, I’ve seen where you live.” 

She grins, looking a little tipsy. But only a little. “Good thing Ben’s talented at his job, then. Glad I’m not there right now. It’s fucking  _ cold _ . I might have to make California Christmas a tradition.” 

He smiles. “It is nice that I’m outside and not courting frostbite.” 

She looks at him, head cocked slightly. “Everything ok with you?” 

He nods, genuinely happy. “Yeah, I just had to take a call.” He pauses. “I don’t want to say anything about it yet, so I’m only going to tell you and Stan at this point, but…I’ve got an interview at PSU. I mean, I don’t know if anything will come of it, but if I got it I’d get to teach – and PSU’s actually got a great history program – ” 

Bev beams, cheeks and nose a little flushed. Maybe it’s the wine, or possibly the air – just because it’s L.A. doesn’t mean it’s not still a bit chilly in December. “You’d get to teach at a college, too! That would be so good for you – ” she says, excited, then stops herself. “I’m calm. I won’t say anything. I’m not getting ahead of myself.” 

He chuckles. “Thanks, Bev.” He looks at her. “So, how are you going?” 

“I actually couldn’t be better,” she says, and laughs. “Being a divorced woman is great, unironically. I feel like – food tastes better and I’m like, seeing the world in colour for the first time in  _ years. _ ” 

“Wow,” Mike says. “I’m so proud of you. You did that.” 

She beams at him, eyes getting misty, and looks in through the glass at the others. Ben is holding Bill and Audra’s tiny three-month old, and he looks even tinier in Ben’s arms. Bill and Audra look tired, but happy. They look at their son with so much joy and affection, Mike’s almost getting misty-eyed himself. 

“Kind of looks like Ben’s cradling a burrito from this distance,” Bev muses, and Mike laughs. 

“Yeah, kinda.” He looks back at her. “You ever think…someday, you might want one?” 

She raises an eyebrow. “A burrito?” 

He raises an eyebrow back. “Not that you have to, obviously. I was just – I guess wondering how Ben feels about it, too. He seems like he’d be a good Dad, if you ever did.” 

She shrugs, half-smiling. “I mean, yeah, he would. I’ve seen him with kids, he’s very cute. But he’s never said he wants any kids to me.” She pauses. “I don’t think I ever wanted kids, for various reasons. I guess you know most of them.” She takes a drink, meditatively. “I’m pretty sure I still don’t. I’m probably kind of past the point where it’s even an option anyway, and I know there’s other ways, but – we’re both doing these jobs that we love, that are kind of like our own separate children, and we travel so much, and I get most of my excess affection out on the dog, so…I wouldn’t say I’m missing that in my life.” 

Mike smiles. “I’m glad to hear that. I’m sorry if I implied you needed too.” 

Bev shakes her head and takes a sip of her drink. “No, it’s alright.” She looks back at Ben through the glass, and smiles at Mike. “But then again, I see that squishy baby face and my ovaries betray me,” she says, with a rueful chuckle. “I don’t know. I guess I’d have the conversation with him. What about you?” 

“What about me?” Mike laughs. Bev raises both eyebrows at him. “Ok, suppose I deserved that one.” 

He looks back at the group inside. Bill, Richie and Eddie are chatting while Audra watches Ben hand a vaguely-concerned looking Stan the baby. 

“I don’t know either. Haven’t really thought about it, for the last ten years, or in this…new part of my life,” he says, and she gives him a knowing look. 

“You wanted them when we were younger, though,” she reminds him, not unkindly. 

He smiles, only a little embarrassed. “You remember that, huh?” 

She nods, with a smirk. 

He sighs. “I did want kids once. But that was – the me I thought might have met someone and married a long time ago. I stopped thinking that was something I was going to have a while ago. And…” he looks at her, trailing off momentarily. “I can’t ask that of him, not any time soon – and it might be too late anyway, by the time we’re even ready to have that talk. We’re both already forty-one, and we’ve only been together just over a year. I want him to feel like he has stability, and we’ve just moved states, and he’s just set up a new practice in Portland – life needs to settle down for him for a while. For both of us.” 

Bev reaches out and rubs his arm. “So, you haven’t put this much thought into it then?” she says, kind in her humour. 

He chuckles, glad it’s her he’s decided to blurt all of this out to. He hasn’t really told anyone about it – it’s not that he thinks they need kids to complete them. He already feels very complete with Stan, and the last year has been busy enough. And it’s only been  _ a year,  _ or a little over. It’s just that he’d convinced himself that kids – even just in theory – was never going to happen, and he’d gotten comfortable with it – and then he’d fallen back in love with someone he’d broken up with when he was eighteen. And he might never have imagined that kids would be a possibility, ever. But being together now – it has the strange effect of the possibilities of their present-day relationship melding with the returning memories and mindset of a much younger version of himself. Like it doesn’t matter that he’s middle-aged, he could do anything. The world is full of possibilities again. 

“No, not that much,” he says, sheepishly. “We’ve got a dog, now, too. Finch. So it’s not like we’re not busy.”

“And I can’t wait to meet her! When are you going to have a housewarming party? I want to see the new place!” she says, excited. 

“When everyone can come to Portland, it’s not our fault you’re all so busy,” he laughs. 

She laughs, and waits a beat to speak again.

“Look, I know you’ve been dating as short a time as we have, and you’re also dealing with a lot of changes too. But, nature being unfairly sexist but convenient for you both, neither of you are on a biological clock. Lots of men have had children older than you guys. I mean, look at any aging rockstar!”

Mike chuckles again. “Yeah, I know.”

Bev looks at him gently, resting her hand on his arm. “If you want it, I think it’s something worth discussing. Down the track. Because I know you’d be a great Dad, Mike, if it came to that.”

He smiles at her. “Thanks, Bev.” He pauses. “I just – I don’t think Stan’s ever expressed any interest in it. I feel like if he’d wanted to have kids he’d have them by now.” 

Bev shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know why they didn’t have them, or if they wanted them. But…” she says, nodding at the window. Stan’s holding the baby, looking at it, genuinely happy now. Bev looks back at Mike. “I think he’d be a pretty good dad, too.” 

“Yeah, I think so too,” Mike says, heart full. “But that’s…a conversation for later. A lot later.” 

Bev smiles at him, eyes twinkling. “Alright.”

They look back at their friends through the window. Richie is making faces at the baby, and Stan is holding him back protectively. Bev laughs. “You think they will?” 

Mike considers it. “I think the combination of both Richie and a child would make Eddie go instantly, prematurely grey, but who knows? Stranger things have happened.” 

He hears the door open, and they both turn. Bill comes through it, looking at them with a curious smile. “What are you guys up to out here?” 

“Just had to take a call,” Mike says.

Bev looks at him. “And I was just checking in on him.” 

Bill smiles more. “Everything ok?” 

They both grin. “Yes, it is,” he replies.

“Well, if you’re finished, come and say goodnight to Georgie before we put him down for the night,” Bill continues. Tired but happy.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Mike says, following him in. 

“Gotta go give my tiny nephew a kiss before he’s old and embarrassed by us,” Bev jokes. 

“He’s three months old, Bev,” Bill tries, half-heartedly. 

“Happens sooner than you think, Bill,” she teases, giggling. 

Mike catches Stan’s eye, as he comes back into the living room. Stan looks back, and smiles, tickling the baby’s chin. 

He looks around at everyone and feels a great wave of affection. It’s nice to just be here, now. In this moment. 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's it! weird to be finishing this, after like nine months and over 200k words, i think it might be the longest thing i've ever written? that's what happens when you decide to write from seven different POVs I guess! 
> 
> i 100% would never have gotten this far without the beta-ing and idea-testing and love and support and from @manycoloureddays, please check out her fics she's better than me and leave her lots of comments about how good her writing is!! 
> 
> i also probably would not have finished this without the lovely comments i've gotten, i knew going into this it wouldn't have a huge audience but seeing just one of those after posting a chapter really made it worth the effort, i know this is a free thing i'm providing of my own volition but it's really nice to feel like people got some joy out of it, and i appreciate it if you told me so :) thanks even if you just left kudos, i know commenting can be a stress, i appreciated it all, and i hope you're all safe and sound, please look after yourselves! :))

**Author's Note:**

> also i'm a big nerd and I made a playlist for the losers:
> 
> graphic: https://canva.me/BsOp6pmpj0  
playlist: https://open.spotify.com/user/minbelle28/playlist/72IAVKuX6H4DUzem8hBmNx?si=kq8hu9KrSH28ku2YeBBS3Q


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